


This Much is True

by DoreyG



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: Alien Culture, Broken Bones, Character Study, Comics Elements, Developing Relationship, Forgiveness, M/M, MM Rares 2016, Mating Dance, Mating Rituals, Mild Stockholm Syndrome, Oral Sex, Other, Outdoor Sex, Overstimulation, Redemption, Rimming, Stranded, Team Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-13
Updated: 2016-08-13
Packaged: 2018-07-24 18:43:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7519138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/pseuds/DoreyG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“The Kree approach their mates through dancing,” they only bother to tell him <i>after </i> he’s saved the planet (and the galaxy, and probably the whole damn universe besides if he’s allowed to take credit for things now). It’s almost like they feared his reaction to the news, or something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Much is True

**Author's Note:**

  * For [urami](https://archiveofourown.org/users/urami/gifts).



“The Kree approach their mates through dancing,” they only bother to tell him _after_ he’s saved the planet (and the galaxy, and probably the whole damn universe besides if he’s allowed to take credit for things now). It’s almost like they feared his reaction to the news, or something. They only get around to sharing it with him hours later, when he’s sitting wrapped in a big orange blanket, with a cup of warm liquid that tastes _almost_ like the hot chocolate his mom used to make him.

“Oh,” he says weakly, takes a long sip and tries very hard not to gag, “you mean...?”

“Yes, unfortunately,” Denarian Dey, the poor schmuck who has been picked to deliver the bad news, smiles weakly at him from across the table, “it’s not like you could’ve been expected to know, or anything. It’s not really common knowledge outside of the Kree. Heck, when I met my wife for the first time...”

He gives the flattest stare that he’s ever managed, possibly the flattest stare that’s ever existed in the whole history of the universe. A pea could balance on that stare. A pea could balance on that stare, raise a family and die happily of old age without even a wobble.

“...Sorry.”

“So,” he says slowly, tries another cautious sip of the warm liquid. Not like it’s gonna taste any nicer cool, after all, “my perfectly innocent, and barely sexual, distraction tactic may well have been taken as a come on by one of the most dangerous beings in the galaxy. Forgive me if this is obvious, but what the hell happens now?”

“Er,” Dey mutters, still flushed a little pink around the edges. Poor baby, so obviously distracted from his obvious reminiscences about his wife, “nothing, really.”

He blinks, tilts his head, frowns a little “...Nothing?”

“The mating dance can most definitely be refused,” Dey explains, very slowly as if to a small child as opposed to a guy who just saved a whole goddamn planet (and galaxy, and universe), “and, uh, don’t take this the wrong way but I’m pretty sure Ronan’s not gonna be interested in an annoying shit who just stopped his world destroying plans dead in their tracks.”

“Huh,” he says, and very deliberately doesn’t take any offence.

“And even if, in some crazy alternate universe or something, he _did_ take any interest...” Dey grins a little, as if inviting him to share in some grand cosmic joke, “we’ve got him securely under lock and key, and will do for the rest of his life. There’s no way he’s getting out of that without a struggle, trust me.”

“So you’re saying...?”

“There’s nothing to worry about, and nothing to do,” Dey provides, and continues grinning at him in a way that reminds him just why he actually likes the guy. Deliberately not taken offence and ‘little shits’ aside, “we just thought you should know, as a courtesy. But beyond that you should just forget about it and get on with your life. You’ve done enough already, we’ve got this one covered.”

“Huh,” he repeats, softly. And tries very hard to ignore the wriggle of unease low in his stomach.

 

\--

 

The problem being, of course, that he _can'_ ignore it. He's a very easily distracted guy, _yeah_ , but sometimes ideas will just stick and stick and stick in his mind - like a stubborn rock in the middle of a sandy beach. And being mated to Ronan, Ronan with all his blueness and fury and passion... Well, it's most certainly one of those ideas.

He thinks about it when he wakes up, in the afternoon when they're running for their lives, at night when he's lying in his bunk. He pokes at it in the cockpit, when fading into the crowd on a dusty planet, while standing in their tiny shower with cold soap suds running down his chest. He practically _obsesses_ over the idea from every angle, taking in every detail, recalling every fact he's ever picked up about Kree biology. And he thinks...

Well, he's sure glad that Ronan's locked away on Xandar. _That's_ for certain.

Or not, as the case may be. Because as it turns out, it only takes about a month for Gamora to drag him out from under one of the bunks - where he had been doing some engineering work, and idly daydreaming about black make-up against dark blue skin - and march him to the cockpit where the others are standing around in solemn and only slightly sullen silence.

"Hey," he sniffs, rubbing somewhat mournfully at his aching ear, "what was that-?"

"Ronan has escaped," Gamora interrupts him deliberately, and waves her hand at the quite obvious holo capture - so sue him, he doesn't have the time to pay attention to _every_ pertinent detail that comes his way - of Ronan's glowering face in the centre of the room, "two days ago, but we just got the message now. He burst out of his prison, severely injuring several guards along the way, and they currently have no idea where he is."

"... _What_ ," he says numbly, and sits heavily down in his chair. The fantasies, initially an entertainment to keep him warm at night in a ship of people mysteriously disinclined to sleep with him, suddenly take on an immediate and threatening light.

"The only lead they have is that they think he's made his way off planet," Gamora nods as sympathetically as she can, gives his arm a firm pat, "and, as we're all aware, that's barely a lead at all. The galaxy is a big place, and he could be pretty much anywhere in it."

"Yeah, I guessed that," he says weakly, and rubs a hand over his face. It says a lot about him, that even with the news sinking in he's more shocked than terrified, "so what the hell are we supposed to do about it? Just sit around here, and wait until a murderous Kree guy comes along to get his horribly painful revenge on all of us or something?"

"No," Drax smiles honestly, like he's actually _trying_ to be comforting, "we are going to hunt him down, Quill, and return him to his eternal and extremely painful punishment with our own eight hands."

"I am Groot!" The still small Groot says optimistically, from where he's perched upon the main console.

"...And five roots."

" _What_?" He repeats despairingly, and barely resists the urge to bang his head against the wall until everything around him - and all the fantasies besides - fade away.

 

\--

 

As it turns out nobody knows _exactly_ where Ronan is, but they do have several strong ideas. Gamora worked with him for a fair while, Drax hunted him for far longer and Rocket (and the shrub-resembling Groot) is one of the best trackers in the galaxy. They develop a search plan quickly, put it into action very soon after while he sits in the cockpit and patiently awaits instructions. He'd feel guilty for doing nothing, but... Eh. He's the heart and soul of the team, and they all know it. He's gonna choose to believe that his very presence is enough.

Gamora rolls her eyes at his totally true assertion, but does lower herself to direct him to a small system on the very edge of the galaxy. There are five planets in it, rotating relatively quickly around a blue star. He settles the ship over the biggest planet, a large one with abundant oceans and one large grassy patch of land looking like it's bobbing in the middle.

"Pretty," he comments, locks the controls and spins around to the rest of the team, "so, what's the plan. We search this planet first, and then spread out to the others...?"

"I'm searching the one furthest from the sun," Gamora informs him, already spacesuited up for some reason. Offensive, he thought that she'd started to _trust_ his mad piloting skills lately, "it's further out than the others, and you're all already aware of my modifications. I should be able to manage it fairly quickly and then return to the ship."

"Okay," he offers optimistically, a little confused as to why she's deciding to search apart from the rest of them but still willing to roll with it, "and then...?"

"I shall search the planet closest to the sun," Drax nods cheerfully, looking practically _thrilled_ at the prospect of getting close to something that blue and that _hot_ , "I do not have quite the level of Gamora's modifications, but you are all aware of how capable I am of surviving. I shall hunt for Ronan, and make him pay for his crimes against not only my family but the whole galaxy around him. If I do not find him on that rock, I shall return here."

"Alright," he continues rolling with it, even over the steadily growing bafflement, "but what...?"

"Groot and me are going to cover the other two," Rocket interrupts, dismissing his confusion with a haughty swish of his tail, "they're smaller, shouldn't take that long. And Groot says that the ecosystem on one of them is super interesting, the closest to his planet that he's found ever since... Well. I want to check it out, see if it'll help him get back to full health any quicker. If it don't, or if we don't find the guy, we'll come back here and regroup."

"Okay," he says slowly, blind optimism - despite his _very_ best efforts - being replaced by even blinder puzzlement, "so I'll just..."

"I am Groot!" Groot sighs, giving him a rather stern look.

"...Search the planet below, then?"

There's a long and _incredibly_ awkward pause, one that they haven't managed since the early days of attempting to be more than a bunch of jerks who'd been in prison together. Groot looks mildly disappointed, Rocket coughs, Drax stares at him like he's missing something totally obvious.

"Peter," Gamora is the one to delicately approach the situation, as always. She lays her hand on his shoulder, as gently as she ever does, and gives him a sympathetic look, "if we don't find Ronan on any of the other worlds, then we'll all return here and search that world together. Alright?"

" _What_?" He demands, and leaps up to his feet. Glares at all of them, refusing to relent no matter _how_ bashful they look, "you expect me to just _wait_ here while you guys go off and do your cool action hero thing? You expect me to just be this pathetic maiden in a castle, or something?"

"We expect you to guard the ship," Drax says helpfully, and looks bashful when Rocket sends him a glare, "it is an important job!"

"Don't you trust me or something?" He huffs, and is surprised by just how whiny it comes out. He thought these guys, this _family_ , actually had faith in him is all. Can't blame a guy for getting a little pouty when the vicious truth comes out, "look, I know that I _was_ a thief and I'm not quite as combat competent as all you guys. But you're letting Groot go along-"

"I am Groot," Groot says, still in that gently chiding tone.

"-And he's a shrub!" He pouts, refuses to listen to even the slightest bit of reason, "aren't I better than a shrub?"

"Uh," Rocket says, _extremely_ slowly.

"Peter, it's not _like_ that," Gamora sighs, completely avoiding the question with a less than subtle roll of her eyes, "it's just that... Well, a few months ago Rocket was just _happening_ to listen at a doorway and heard something about Ronan. And you. And you and Ronan."

He blinks, slowly. Finally allows some of the huffiness to fade away, as the memories of that only _slightly_ humiliating conversation trickle through, "oh."

"Yeah," Rocket snickers, vague guilt transforming happily into amusement.

"You mean...?"

" _Yeah_."

"If Ronan acknowledges you as his mate, you're in danger," Gamora says apologetically, deliberately kicks Rocket as she leans over to soothingly pat his arm again, "and even if he doesn't acknowledge you as his mate, you're in danger because you made the approach. We're not leaving you out, we're _protecting_ you. Try to appreciate that, for once?"

 

\--

 

He doesn't appreciate it.

Okay, so, _sure_. Maybe they did it for good reasons, maybe they didn't actually mean to piss him off in any way. But they're still leaving him all alone on a boring ship while they go off to have fun space adventures, and he is definitely allowed to be the _tiniest_ bit bitter about that. It's a mature reaction, an adult one. Not childish at all!

" _I_ want to have fun space adventures," he pouts, and kicks at the wall as he watches Rocket and Groot jet off into space in one of the improved escape pods. It hurts his toe, but it's _totally_ worth the effort.

He's not sure how long it's going to take, Drax optimistically boasted that it would only take a few days at most while Gamora screwed up her face and cautiously estimated a few weeks at _least_ , but the one thing that's perfectly clear is that he's going to be all on his own for at least a little while. And able to do nothing fun, like picking up brightly coloured aliens or doing barrel rolls through space or pissing off any authority figures whatsoever. The thought is maddening to him, an itch in his mind that he can't quite shake. He _hates_ being alone, hates all the poisonous things that it reminds him of. He'd much rather be in the middle of the crowd, at a party with all his friends crowded around him, in bed with a Spartoi lady on one arm and a suspiciously blue Kree dude on the other.

Hell, even one person would be enough...

He huffs, already braced for a long period of intense and lonely sulking. Rolls his way into the cockpit, and pokes sulkily at a few buttons as he watches the last lingering stream of Gamora's pod fade into the distant darkness of space. Sulking to moody music while staring at the stars seems the _perfect_ way to fill the time until they get back. Some of the time. Maybe a few days, or a couple of hours at most. He can pout along to loud music, and then-

The entire console beeps, urgent and - as far as such a thing is possible, considering that he hasn't actually gone full Sci-Fi and installed an AI yet - panicky.

And then...

 _Beep_ , the console repeats. Loud enough, and shrill enough, to be heard even over the music.

And _then_...

 _Beep_!

He scowls, leads forward from where he threw himself sulkily into his chair to shut the damn thing off. It's like its mocking him, mocking his sulky loneliness with a threat that couldn't _possibly_ be there in this shitty system right in the middle of nowhere. It's offensive, is what it is. And cruel and mean and just downright-

The last thing he sees, before he's thrown back onto the floor and into the darkness of unconsciousness, is a flash of blindingly blue light that somehow reminds him of Ronan. And by that point he doesn't even have enough time to _groan_.

 

\--

 

He wakes up he doesn't know how many hours later to a muggy head, a _throbbing_ pain in his left leg and a general sense of utter fucking confusion. He has no idea where he is, but unless he decided to do a little knocked out redecorating he's most certainly not on the ship. There's a dark blue sky stretching high above him, and itchy grass tickling the exposed skin on his face and hands. 

Oh, and a pair of piercing eyes set in a blue face are peering down at him. Yay. Like his life couldn't get any _more_ complicated.

" _Ronan_."

"Peter Quill," Ronan does him the _honour_ of responding, inclining that head ever so slowly. He looks skinnier than before, and his face is plain blue as opposed to made up like some nightmare clown, but otherwise he seems to be still their good old galaxy hating monster, "Also known as Star-Lord. Remain still, if you please."

"...Nope," he says quite firmly, and immediately attempts to prop himself up on his elbows, "I'm guessing you're the one that got me into this mess?"

"You're injured," Ronan only sighs, snakes out an arm to catch him as he immediately wavers and almost collapses flatly onto his back, "not terribly, but still enough that immediate action would be... Unwise. Your leg is broken in two places, and I strongly suspect that you have sustained a concussion."

"Does that count as a yes?" He sniffs, trying his _very_ hardest not to lean into that supportive hand a single bit more than he has to.

"I have already given you a sedative, to help with the pain. I shall set your broken bones while you are under, and my current prediction is that you shall make a full recovery," Ronan gives him a faintly pinched, almost _disapproving_ look. Keeps that arm supportively under his head, as he lowers him gently back down to the grassy ground, "at least, unless you indulge in any unwise actions. Are you going to do that, great Star-Lord?"

"That definitely sounds like a yes, to the whole mess causing business," he glares up, woozily. _Briefly_ considers lunging to try and gain the upper hand, but finds all of his limbs already far too heavy and leaden to even try, "innocent people don't _drug_ others, you know."

"Mm," Ronan sighs. And, to his utter shock, gives a _incredibly_ meaningful roll of his eyes, "what a uniquely Terran view."

"What a uniquely decent creature in existence view, you piece of-!"

"Maybe when you wake up we can have a more reasonable discussion," Ronan chides him gently, and the last thing he sees before he falls back into darkness is the slow curve of that mouth he's thought of far too much lately, "sweet dreams, Star-Lord, all shall seem far more reasonable when you come out of them."

 

\--

 

He wakes up again, to his great surprise. He wasn’t expecting it, he thought the most likely option was Ronan eating his face like a cat while he was sleeping, and so he isn’t really sure what to feel when it actually happens. Mildly annoyed, possibly. Grumpy that his leg, apparently broken in two places, is fully immobilized and set. Begrudgingly grateful, that he didn’t really have to experience any of the pain of it. Relieved, that Ronan doesn’t seem to be around at present moment.

...Nah, he’s not in the mood to entertain any positivity like that. He opens his mouth wide, before he can think through even the slightest implication of it, and yells at the top of his lungs, “oi, ship wrecking hussy!”

There’s a low clatter, from behind a grassy hillock that he can just about see if he raises his head high enough and bites down on the nausea, and then Ronan emerges and marches over. He looks relieved, a slight smile curving his plain blue lips and a lingering warmth in his eyes. It’s kinda embarrassing, how good that looks on him, “ah, you’re awake. Good. I was starting to worry.” 

...No, not good on him! Shameful on him! Disgusting on him! Downright offensive on him! He pushes past the nausea even more firmly to sit up, fixes Ronan with the most ferocious glare he can muster, “stop lying to me.”

“I have not lied,” Ronan carefully catches him, before he can execute yet another flawlessly boneless tumble flat onto his back. Even goes the extra mile afterwards, and props him carefully up so he can continue glaring, “careful, I have treated you as best I can but even I cannot entirely erase your injuries.”

“Nah, all you can do is wreck homes!” He glares, dutifully, until Ronan’s face creases a little in perplexed amusement and he realizes what he’s just said, “and ships, ships and homes. And you have lied to me, so _there_.”

“Have I?”

“You weren’t worried,” he snarls, sticking to his rage no matter how amused Ronan looks. He wears it well, the creases on his skin and the faint sparkle in dark eyes that’d been so flatly devoid of life before. He can totally keep pretending that it sickens him, totally, “because you’re incapable of worry, it’s just not within your black little heart. If you were capable of worry you wouldn’t be sitting here so calmly across from a guy who put you in jail, if you were capable of worry you wouldn’t be lounging calmly on one planet while Thanos is still out to kill you, if you were capable of worry you wouldn’t have wrecked my ship in the first place!”

At least – and he doesn’t regret that, not one little bit – that gets rid of Ronan’s clear amusement. He stares for a long moment, thoughtfully still in a way that he’s not really used to. Then lets out a gusty sigh, and sits back to give him a little space, “I have reasons for everything I do, Star-Lord.”

“Reasons like not giving a shit?”

“No, but that’s besides the point. I shall reveal them in time, and you must be happy with that,” Ronan purses his lips for a long moment, seems to be thinking about what the way to proceed is, “I did not mean to, as you so expressively put it, wreck your ship.”

“Then what did you mean to do, guide it down gently onto a bed of unicorns and rainbows?” He sneers, still as fearsome as he can make it, “unless you're going to bullshit me, and say that it wasn’t actually you that did it. That it was just the magnetic pull of the planet, or a fault in the hull, or... Unicorns.”

“Are unicorns common on Terra, for you to be so obsessed with them?” Ronan frowns a little, shakes his head and obviously decides to carry on with more important matters, “I am not going to deny the facts, Star-Lord, it was me who brought your craft down. But you must believe that I did not mean the landing to be so bumpy, or to cause you such harm in the process. I was limited by the materials that I had, far more than expected.”

“What?” He huffs, trying his very hardest to look scornful as opposed to the slightest bit intrigued, “was your hull piercing gun a few months out of date, or something?”

“I escaped from my prison with one short-range blaster and several ripped-loose panels tucked under my shirt,” Ronan interrupts him almost politely, a solemn and thoughtful look in his eye, “I managed to gather a few more weapons, a few more carefully extracted panels and power sources, on my journey here but I had no real time to manage much. The device I built was rudimentary at best, a grouping of wires and dangerous energy that could’ve easily exploded in my face. I tried it three times when my sensors notified me that the Milano had entered the atmosphere, and it only worked on the third. And even then... Well, if a fleet suddenly arrives let us assume that that will no longer be an option.”

“...You cobbled together not only a planetary gun out of spare parts, but also something that can monitor outer space?” He asks, slightly blindsided with shock, and only grows more befuddled when Ronan slowly inclines his head in response, “okay, that is kinda impressive I will admit.”

A smirk shoots across Ronan’s face, as quick as the nod was slow, “thank you.”

“Which you should not take as an endorsement in _any_ way!” He snaps, forcing past his impressed bafflement with the white hot force of justified rage. Which should really be easier to summon, but oh well! “Seriously, you may not have meant to wreck my ship but you still did. And you _definitely_ meany to break out of prison, severely injure several poor guards and bring me to a deserted planet for mysterious reasons. The moral ball is hardly in your court.”

“...Perhaps,” Ronan admits begrudgingly, with a certain sour purse of his lips like he’s barely stopping himself from rolling his eyes again, “but the reasons why I’ve brought you to this planet are far from mysterious.”

“Oh, really?”

“You approached me,” Ronan reminds him, in a low and steady tone that he really should be more angry at than amused by, “you performed the mating dance, you extended the offer of that most sacred of bonds... And then you left me in a prison, and flew off across the galaxy like you simply didn’t care. Can you blame me for being intrigued?”

He stares for a long moment, eyes wide and mouth surprisingly dry... And then coughs. Forcibly reminds himself that, as much of a messed up puppy he is when it comes to his kinks, he does have some pride and returns to glaring instead, “I can blame you for a hell of a lot, Ronan the Accuser. And is that supposed to make you any less mysterious and creepy, or...?”

“Make of it what you will,” Ronan says, coincidentally in exactly the same weary tone that Gamora uses when marvelling over his stupidity, and lowers him gently to the ground again, “it’ll take your concussion a few days to pass at most, but your leg will take three months to heal at least. No matter what you think of me, you have little other option for survival at present moment. I would embrace that, if I were you.”

“Go to hell,” he spits, staring up at the sunny blue sky again.

“Unfortunately for you, the Kree have a rather different concept of that word,” he hears a low huff, a surprisingly uncontrolled breath and then the steady stomp of feet away from his prone position, “I think the best thing for you right now would be water, and probably some food. Try not to worry, it would be simply inefficient to drug them every single time.”

He keeps glaring up at the sky silently, teeth gritted. Trying his very hardest to pretend that he’s furious, as opposed to largely relieved that the nausea has gone away.

 

\--

 

"You're healing as expected."

"Are you sure?" he spits, and swats at where Ronan's hand is holding something cold and faintly damp to his head. It doesn't do much good, Ronan barely moves an inch, but then that's been basically the story of the past few days, "are you absolutely certain, mister 'I want to destroy a planet because it looked at me funny'?"

"The situation was somewhat more complicated than that," Ronan huffs, continues to ignore all of his rather troublesome fidgeting completely and utterly, "and yes, as certain as I can be considering..."

"You've consistently chosen destroying things over _creating_ things?"

"That I'm not a medical doctor," Ronan sighs, and gives him a somewhat annoyed look. He's been the recipient of many of those looks by now, and yet... To Ronan's credit, the most he's done is glare in a slightly bemused fashion, "are you always this dramatic, or will it fade once the concussion is gone?"

"I think you can answer that for yourself," he sneers, and successfully manages to push himself up into a sitting position this time. He's only slightly surprise, that he manages it without the world going all shaky and doubled around him, "'dance off, bro'. Remember that?"

"How could I ever forget?" Ronan asks wryly, as the utter stupidity of what he's just blurted slowly starts to think in. The man still doesn't move in, though, or even away. He only adjusts his grip on the pack slightly, keeps sitting there like very little in the universe is wrong, "for what it's worth, Star-Lord, you are definitely improving. Your speech seems less slurred, you're remembering more and your alertness is... Most definitely back up to normal standards. How is your headache?"

"I was _slurring_?" He scowls a little, Ronan only stares calmly back at him in response. It takes several long minutes of a stare off, before he sighs to himself and decides to give in _just_ this once, "a little better, I suppose. Feels like I can actually concentrate now, at least. And, hey, the blurred vision has gone too!"

"Your vision was blurred?"

"I was _slurring_?" He repeats pointedly, summoning up yet another one of his very best glares.

"...Point," the ones that seem to have no effect on Ronan, no matter how much he tries. The man sighs, low in his throat. Briefly removes the ice pack to check his forehead, and then returns to the careful press, "as I said, your concussion most certainly seems to be healing on schedule. We can only hope that your leg manages to do much the same."

"Pray to our gods, and all that?" He huffs, throws up a hand before Ronan can do more politely open his mouth in preparation for a lecture that'll probably be hours long and boring as hell besides, "I'll save you the trouble of wondering, I haven't done that in _years_. You'll have to do enough praying for the both of us."

"Something of the sort can be managed," Ronan offers calmly, completely nonplussed by his resistance.

It's like throwing himself at a wall again and again. A muscular, surprisingly handsome wall now that all that Goth make-up has been forcibly scrubbed away. It remains a kinda sick puppy thing to admit, but... He likes it a surprising amount. He's always been an unstoppable force, charging around the galaxy and vaguely hoping for an immovable object to drop down in his way. It's not like this is an ideal situation, or anything, but he can't deny that it's sort of-

No, bad sick puppy! No toys, or satisfaction, until he stops thinking stupid things! He growls, largely to himself, _forces_ himself to glare at Ronan again with all the justified outrage he can muster, "so, hey, are you going to keep taking care of me like this while my leg heals too?"

"Pressing a pack of ice to your head while your leg is in pain would not be the best idea," Ronan offers flatly, tilting his head at that sudden glare in mildly amused confusion, "I'm not a doctor, but even I know that."

"You know very well what I mean," he huffs, refusing to allow himself to be even the slightest bit amused at the sarcasm. God, he wishes Gamora was here. Not only would she protect him from the scary genius Kree who has basically kidnapped him, but she'd also be beyond fine with bopping him on the nose with a rolled up holoscreen, "are you going to keep focusing on me and only me, like you actually give the slightest shit?"

Ronan stares at him in confusion for another long moment, then slowly - almost impossibly - lifts his shoulders in the slightest shrug, "why would I not?"

"Don't you have anything _better_ to do?" He explodes, glaring so hard that it's a wonder his eyeballs don't fall out, "like, I don't know... Getting us off this planet? Fleeing my friends, when they inevitably come for you? Fleeing Thanos? Actually _claiming_ me as your mate, as opposed to this wishy washy pseudo-romantic bullshit?"

Ronan only stares at him for a long moment, dark eyes thoughtful. And he wonders, for a breathless handful of seconds that are rather more excited than he'd like, if he's just triggered his own ravishing...

"You understand so little about Kree culture," Ronan sighs, thoughtfully, and finally draws his hand away. Inspects the ice pack for a long moment, then gives another sharp little shrug and turns to fetch another one, "believe me, Star-Lord, there is nothing more important at this moment than you. And, besides, who says that I can't multitask?"

 

\--

 

To his mild - faintly ridiculous, _fine_ \- annoyance the concussion fades about on schedule. The headaches go away completely, he stops seeing double every time he does more than twitch and he's able to sit up effectively for more than five minutes at a time. It's great, wonderful, amazing and _sparkly_.

...Y'know, apart from the still broken leg and the fact that he's stuck on a planet with a homicidal maniac who has cheerfully tried to kill him before.

But, in the privacy of his own mind and thank _god_ most of the Kree aren't telepathic, he can secretly admit that none of those things are too bad. His leg hurts, sure, and is still annoyingly immobile - but it's still attached to his body, and is apparently healing steadily on schedule. And as for Ronan...

 _Well_.

Ronan is terrifying, and extreme, and messed up in a way that would be beyond the pale if he hadn't been raised by the Ravagers. He attempted to destroy a planet, he worked with Thanos, he seems to see every single obstacle placed in his path as a challenge to surmount in the most over the top way possible. 

But he's also smart, and a surprisingly good doctor, and _funny_ in a way that he never would've expected. He doesn't pressure, he's honest, he's as respectful as he can possibly be considering the situation. And it might just be the fact that he's trapped all alone on an alien planet getting to him, _but_ -

No.

No, it's definitely just the isolation getting to him. No need to think about his absent daydreams of Ronan before, no need to give the guy that basically _kidnapped_ him and destroyed his ship even the slightest bit of credit.

"You know," he says mutinously one day, desperately trying to distract himself from the pernicious thoughts that keep creeping in. Because, you know, _desperation_ has always caused him to make good decisions, "I'm kind of surprised, considering everything, that you haven't just _ravished_ me yet."

"Ravished you...?" Ronan is sharpening a knife, whether for hunting or to gut him in the middle of the night is as yet unclear. He looks up in confusion, frowns at him until he rolls his eyes and makes the crudest gesture that he can manage, "oh, that."

"Yes, _that_ ," he spits, and only barely remembers to stop gesturing. No need for overkill, after all, as much as he usually enjoys such a thing, "I'm supposed to be your mate, aren't I?"

Ronan's eyes have gone dark, his fingers have stilled on the knife, "yes."

"The light of your life," he clears his throat, surprised to find his mouth gone slightly dry at that particular look, "the one you want to spend _forever_ with."

"Yes."

"Then why-" He stutters to a halt, as Ronan slowly and deliberately puts the knife down. Forces himself to swallow again, and carry slowly on, "why aren't you actually _acting_ on that? Are you still trying to pretend that you're a good and noble person, or some shit like that?"

"Good and noble are two different things," Ronan corrects him, eyes still dark and tone so husky that it raises the hairs all over his body, "and most of the time, my Star-Lord, I am neither. What I am, beyond all, is _dutiful_. And it is duty that binds me here, as much as I sometimes wish it was otherwise."

He stares for a long second, wide-eyed. Gulps slowly, trying to ignore the slow heat spreading through his gut at that, "you do?"

"The things I would do to you if I could, Star-Lord. The ways I would press you down, spread you out, put that _mouth_ to good use..." Ronan reaches out to him, and he leans in automatically. There's a long moment, where they're almost touching - and then Ronan is the one to draw back, curl his hand into a fist against his thigh and huff out a long breath through his nose, "but I will not."

"Really?" He squeaks, more shamefully aroused than he can _ever_ remember being before.

"So many have forgotten the old traditions, have thrown aside what is vital to our culture in favour of being more _accepted_ ," Ronan sneers a little, keeps his fist clenched against his thigh like he's desperately battling for some measure of control, "but I _will_ not, I... Cannot. In old Kree culture you had to accept your mate, work together for a more glorious future. In old Kree culture you could not force your mate, could not harm them in any way. In old Kree culture-"

They stare at each other for a long and silent moment. Both holding their breath, both right on the edge of something terrifying and fucking _amazing_.

"...Well," Until Ronan clears his throat, shakes his head slightly and glances briefly down, "certain things were respected, and I am determined to respect that."

"I, right," he says, dazedly, and takes the opportunity to draw in a deep breath during the pause. Ronan is intense, scarily and terrifyingly so. And it should make him want to run _far_ away, but instead... "You are aware that that's kinda contradictory, right?"

Another long pause, Ronan's ever so intense eyes slowly raise to stare at him again, "is it?"

"You say that you don't want to harm me," he says slowly, deliberately. Because, really, focusing on that is the only way not to get caught in the magnetic pull of Ronan's intensity, "yet you still kind of wrecked my ship, and stranded me on a planet with very little hope of rescue."

"That was-"

"An accident, whatever," he huffs, forces himself to meet Ronan's gaze - refusing to cower under all the crushing intensity of it, "it still happened though, didn't it? And I'm still stuck here, injured and vulnerable and _entirely_ at your mercy."

He's expecting Ronan to scoff at that, or grunt or turn away or even _lean in_ , but he does none of those things. He only stares for a long moment, looking torn between deep thought and utter annoyance, and then sighs lowly and shakes his head in a way that is probably as close to resigned as Ronan is ever going to get, "you may well have a point."

"Really?" He asks, incredulous. Moderates himself only when Ronan raises an eyebrow at him, obviously trying his very hardest not to look amused, "I mean, uh, of _course_ I do. But are you actually going to listen to it?"

"I just did."

"I _meant_ -"

"I know very well what you meant," Ronan corrects him, giving another rare roll of his eyes. Amazing, how that seems to be catching around him, "you are still injured, and your ship is still... In a somewhat less than perfect state. As much as you wish it, as much as you may well have a point, it is actively impossible for you to leave the planet right now."

"Uh," he says, somewhat stunned by the honesty, "unless you give me your ship, of course?"

"I was dropped off here in an escape pod, one that - even if it was capable of deep space flight - I have since gutted for parts," Ronan smiles a little, shakes his head, "you underestimate how much this was an all or nothing manoeuvre."

"Ah."

"But there are options other than that," Ronan admits, his small smile turning the slightest shade reluctant, "I still have the parts, even if they are somewhat damaged, and I have picked up some small knowledge of engineering over the years. I could attempt to fix your ship, return it to a working state as you recover."

He stares openly, not even bothering to hide how utterly _stunned_ he is by that, "you'd do that?"

"If you wish it."

"I... Of _course_ I wish it," he says, trying to summon every single bit of passion within him, "I'm just wondering, you know. What are you going to ask for in return?"

"You are smarter than you look, my Star-Lord," Ronan smiles again, immediately starts ignoring his offended expression at that _insult_ , "I could ask for many things in return, but for now all I shall request is that you give me a chance. Not your trust, not your heart, not even a reception with open arms and gushing joy... But a chance."

They look at each other for another long second, level and equal and all alone on this world.

...He swallows, somewhat unsurprised to find his mouth gone dry again, glances away briefly - and then tries to return with a glare, a scowl, _some_ sort of offence to hide how oddly tempting the option has become, "what, a chance for you to actually ravish me?"

And Ronan's eyes go dark again, "amongst other things."

 

\--

 

His concussion fades helpfully and on time, but his broken leg seems inclined to be nowhere near as helpful. He's no longer in _horrific_ pain from it, but it still aches at least half the time in a dull monotonous throb. He still can't put any weight on it, can't even move it much without the throb shooting up in intensity and Ronan glaring at him like he's just shot a puppy into space. As a result he still can't really get anywhere without help, is largely stuck in one place with the irritation within him growing and growing and _growing_.

Ugh, he's had better weeks. That's for fucking certain.

But through it all, Ronan remains not as terrible as he could be. Which is a bit of a disservice to the guy, actually. He's patient, he's calm, he's always there to check the progress of the swelling and make mildly soothing comments about how everything is going to plan. He seems constantly willing to haul him up, with those big blue muscles that his eyes eternally linger far too long on, and take him wherever he wants to go. He's even kind of... Nice.

And when he's not hauling him everywhere, he sticks to his promises about as well as can be expected. Has already dismantled his only slightly terrifying ship piercing gun and sorted the parts into precise little piles, seems to be determined to get started on what remains of his own escape pod as soon as possible. He's not quite sure what to do about that, about somebody so utterly terrifying and dedicated to fucking up the universe, actually honouring him. It's weird, and scary, and all kinds of flattering in a way that keeps creeping up on him when he's not expecting it.

"You know," he says one day, perched on a hillock and watching as Ronan thrusts his arms deep into the escape pod. It's a relatively small thing, looking even more cramped than the ones they have - _had_ \- on the Milano. When he wants to smile, he just has to think of Ronan squashing himself up to fit in there and the rest comes naturally, "this seems a lot of effort, for a guy like me."

"It is a lot of effort," Ronan agrees darkly, winces as his bare arm obviously scrapes against something sharp, "but you are my mate, and it is an effort that I want to expend."

"Yeah, but..." He hesitates for a second, watching the flex of muscles in the guys back. A thousand muffled insecurities suddenly hover on the edge of his tongue, the kind of things that he's never really told _anyone_ because there's not much point in opening himself up for scoffing. In the end he decides to go for none of them, goes for the actually _logical_ option instead, "it might not even be worth it, in the end. What if my friends find us before you can fix my ship?"

Ronan seems to consider this point, even as he withdraws his arm to inspect the damage. There seems to be nothing visible, apart from a slightly darker smudge of blue just below his bicep. He's kinda surprised, by how relieved he is at that, "before your leg fully heals, you mean?"

"I suppose," he says cautiously, also somewhat stunned by how Ronan's focus is his wellbeing while his focus is his damn ship. This is a day for surprises, apparently. Maybe the planet is going to turn into a giant bird next, and solve all of their problems in one fell swoop, "it'll take three months, won't it?"

"Roughly."

"That's a fairly long time," he offers reasonably, steels himself as Ronan turns to look at him with those ever so intense eyes, "especially when they said that they'd be off for a week, two weeks tops. How do you know that they're not going to find us before you can get anywhere?"

"As opposed to just rescuing you?" Ronan asks wryly, and sighs before he can do more than flinch at his slip. Considers for a second, and then sits himself calmly down on the grass like he's fully prepared to deal with this quickly and then get immediately back to work, "I am not that adept at reading the signs of the future myself, so there are no certainties. But... Knowing what I do, I consider it unlikely."

"Knowing what you do?" He huffs, trying to encourage his brief flare of frustration. It's rather hard to do, when Ronan keeps staring at him with that _look_ in his eyes, "and what do you _know_ , Mr Space Accuser Man?"

"What an unwieldly title, I am glad it is not my actual one," Ronan offers wryly, lifts his shoulders in the very slightest of shrugs, "you forget that I know Gamora, and know _of_ the other three. Your friends may posture, but they are thorough. It shall probably take more than a few weeks for them to be done with their search."

"True," he gives, watching desperately as the last dregs of offence slip out of his grasp, "I suppose. But after that-"

"They still have no ships of their own," Ronan interrupts him calmly, scratches briefly at the darker blue spot on his arm like it irritates him, "no possible base, and probably little idea of what happened to their last one. I am not sure about your other friends, from what I can gather their strategic brilliance is somewhat _lacking_ , but I do not think Gamora will be willing to blunder in when she's at such a disadvantage."

He stares for a second, stunned yet again. Only gets his breath back when Ronan starts looking concerned, shifts like he wants to move towards him to check, "she's my friend."

"I didn't say she wasn't."

"She _cares_ for me," he draws in a deep breath, most definitely _doesn't_ miss the way Ronan's eyes go dark and slightly possessive at that, "they all care for me. No matter how difficult it is, they're not just going to _abandon_ me here."

"How much does she-?" Ronan snaps, catches himself at the last minute and sighs lowly. Suddenly, as ridiculous as it is, there's a low desire for him to push that snap of jealousy as far as it can go. To goad Ronan, until he shows the fire that's _properly_ lurking underneath, "I also did not say that, Starlord. I believe that the chances of them abandoning you are so slim as to be non-existent, do not worry."

"Then what...?" He asks, stepping down on that desire as hard as he possibly can.

"My only point is that it will probably take a while," Ronan interrupts him again, deliberately. Turns back to the wreck of the pod, like their conversation is very nearly over, "because Gamora, from what I know of her, will want as much strategic advantage as she can gain. In a few months what remains of the Xandarian fleet will be here, _again_ , with her at the head of it... But that is in a few months."

He gawps a little, stunned.

"And a few months," Ronan continues, still so very deliberate, "is more than enough time for you to heal, and for me to fix your ship."

"I-" he starts, and shakes his head. Feeling somewhat dizzy from all the utter shock of today. But then, that's Ronan all over. The Kree personification of shock in a beautifully stylish shade of blue, "you would risk an entire Xandarian fleet, just to prove a point to me?"

"For you," Ronan corrects absently, peering at the ship again. And then pauses, glances back at him thoughtfully like an important question has just occurred to him, "the real question is, my Star-Lord, would you allow an entire Xandarian fleet to kill me just to prove a point to yourself?" 

They stare at each other for a long second. Him somewhat numb, Ronan curious like... Like he actively doesn't give a fuck about his own life, not anymore. And for possibly the first time, a stir of pity starts in his chest at just what this man is. At just what he's forced himself to become, for so many stupid reasons.

"...We'll see."

"I suppose we will," Ronan agrees, mildly curious, and turns back to the ship. Tilts his head for a second, then plunges his muscular arms right back in.

 

\--

 

Time presses on, far more absorbingly than it would've if he'd just been hovering in a lonely-ass manner on his ship as much as he's loathe to admit it, and Ronan is proved disappointingly right. One week passes and there's no flash in the sky like Drax has just returned to find the ship missing and spontaneously exploded with rage, two weeks pass and there's no sign of Gamora landing brutally just a few steps from his landing spot and coming to drag him back to space by his ear, three weeks pass and Rocket and Groot completely fail to rise suddenly from the earth and grab Ronan by the throat, a month...

Well, by the time a _month_ comes up he's almost ready to stop counting.

He misses them, misses all of his friends. He hasn't known them for long, probably less than a year by this point, but... Before he reunited with Ronan they were the only people who'd properly cared about him for decades, and it's hard _not_ to miss that. He pines after the way that Gamora always rolled her eyes when he said something stupid, longs for Drax's confused expression when the briefest metaphor was used, desperately wishes for Rocket's cackling laugh or Groot's gentle grunting. It's kind of pathetic, how the thoughts of all of them are starting to hurt even more than his actually broken leg.

Not quite as pathetic, though, as the way he misses the opportunity to reintroduce Ronan to them all. Now that he's actually being reasonable, and _not_ a planet destroying monster.

Because he misses all of his friends, good _god_ does he miss all of his friends, but he has to admit that the company he actually has is... Not all that bad. Ronan has done terrifying things, sure, he _remains_ a terrifying person. He tried to destroy a planet, he led a fanatical army, he plunged himself willingly into the life of a mass fucking murderer without even the slightest glance back. His eyes, even bare of make-up, still hold that slightest dark spark - like he'd do it all again, if needs called for it.

But he's nice to him.

Heh, _pathetic_. But also, as much as he really doesn't want to admit it, true. He has his reasons, he has quite clearly stated his reasons in a way that leaves little wriggle room, but those reasons aren't anywhere near bad enough to erase the fact that he's acted like a perfect gentleman during their time together. He talks to him like an equal, helps him hobble to wherever he wants to go, even attempts to fix his goddamned ship as best he can. He's still crazy intense, sure, but he's also... Kinda funny, weirdly supportive, incredibly competent in a way that gets him right in the sick puppy parts. He, obviously and without reservations, _cares_ for him.

...To the point where he risks serious injury by crawling around in a ship several sizes too small for him, cheerfully hauls him around even when subsiding on two hours of sleep at most, goes hunting for him and then cuts his own food rations in half just so he has a little more food in his belly.

"You know," he says one evening, as they're tucking into a weird rabbit kind of thing that Ronan caught earlier that day. The man looks tired, darker blue shadows under his eyes and scratches twining all up his arms. Despite this, he still has three quarters of a rabbit-thing on his plate while Ronan only has one, "you really don't have to do this."

"Eat?" Ronan asks wryly, taking a neat little bite of his leg of rabbit-thing. He still has two more on his plate. Because, as ever, animals in space are _weird_ fuckers, "please tell me that I don't have to make another comment on your ignorance of Kree culture, Star-Lord, it's starting to get tiring."

"Let's just pretend we did, and not," he decides, and tries not to watch Ronan's smirk too closely. That smirk could do things to a man, terrifying and _strange_ things, "and I don't mean _that_ , I mean... You don't have to deprive yourself just for me."

"Who says I'm depriving myself?" Ronan asks calmly, and actually _lays the leg down_ like needing to feed himself is of secondary concern, "maybe the Kree need less food than you Terrans, have you considered that?"

"Oh no, you can't use that excuse on me. I've fucked-" He realizes what he's saying at the very last minute, fakes a brief coughing fit and gets back on track before Ronan can do more than frown at him, "I've _known_ Kree before, I mean, and you guys need just as much food as us savage Terrans."

"Hm," Ronan says, still looking unconvinced.

"Just as much sleep, too," he takes a deep breath, looks away briefly to gather his thoughts. They tend to fly away with even more speed than usual, when Ronan is around. It's hard to keep hold of any sort of coherency, when somebody is so dedicated to looking at you like _that_ , "why are you doing this? And don't try to lie to me again, I'll _know_ before you even open your mouth."

Ronan looks at him like he's something special. Something important and wonderful, and entirely worth facing down an abandoned moon and a Xandarian fleet for. And as somebody who has spent over half their life being glared at, being spat on and sneered at and treated like an amusing little pet at best... Well, it's _intoxicating_. Something terrifying at worst, and downright enchanting at very best.

"I doubt that," Ronan sighs eventually, looking at him with a thoughtful expression like he can _actually_ read his mind, and then slowly shakes his head, "but... I do not want you to be in pain for any longer than you have to be, especially pain that I indirectly caused."

"And working yourself to the bone is going to help with that?" He glares a little, the impact of Ronan's words only sinking in a few seconds later as the man rolls his eyes, "wait, you feel _guilty_ about this?"

Ronan sighs again, looks away briefly like he's trying to gather his thoughts, "I suppose you could call it that, yes."

"You feel guilty," he repeats, incredulously. Shakes his head, like that's going to stop it from sinking in. Too late, once you start understanding Ronan the slightest bit you just can't stop - the knowledge sinks into him, lingering like some sort of caress, "I didn't know you were capable of feeling guilty."

"You didn't know a lot about me," Ronan says shortly, obviously forces himself into a stiff shrug and stares back down at his plate like he desperately wants the conversation to be over, "now you do. Are you going to finish your food?"

He bites his lip for a long moment, struggling with the knowledge of Ronan's guilt and the knowledge of what Ronan has actually _done_ and the knowledge of how he _feels_ about both of those things mixed together...

"Now I do," he agrees, as softly as he can, and shifts awkwardly over until his good knee is bumping up against Ronan's thigh. Takes advantage of the man's shock to tip his plate, slide the two remaining rabbit-thing legs on it into Ronan's puzzled lap, "and, nah, as it turns out I'm not actually feeling all that hungry at the moment."

"Star-Lord..." Ronan starts, sounding torn between mildly furious and _completely_ confused.

"There's no point in letting them go to waste!" He chirps, and nudges Ronan's thigh with his knee again. Watches as the confused fury gives way to something softer, something longing in a way that he also never really thought Ronan capable of, "eat up! You need the energy, after all. I've got so much napping planned for you that you're gonna need fat reserves like a _bear_ to get through it."

"I... Have no idea what a bear is," Ronan confesses, still puzzled. But picks one of the offered rabbit-thing legs up, slowly starts to chew like he's not entirely opposed to the idea.

 

\--

 

Now that his leg is getting a little better, and now that he’s stopped looking constantly pouty and furious, Ronan relents and actually allows him to have a bit more of a say in the ship rebuilding. He still can’t actually do that much, being unable to stand unsupported kinda puts a crimp in that plan, but he can still be as helpful as he’s capable of. Hand over tools, point out cracks that Ronan has missed, theorise on the best way to restore hull integrity...

Sit on the bottom bunk, and make cheerfully sarcastic comments as Ronan balances precariously to meet the ceiling.

“Are you _sure_ you know what you’re doing?”

“Well enough,” Ronan retorts, slightly muffled. He’s got one foot on the top bunk, and one foot hanging precariously in the air as he focuses on poking roughly at the ceiling, “the life support in this room was compromised in the crash. While that is not a problem on the planet, if it continues malfunctioning in space...”

It’s distracting – the man’s laser focus on the ceiling, the way his hands poke bluntly at the delicate machinery, the way he looks like he could tumble over at the slightest breeze. And that’s not even getting into the other details – the smudges of oil standing out like make-up against his blue skin, the way he can still see the sweat glimmering against the blue, the fact that Ronan is _shirtless_ before him without even a thought-

“Kinda disastrous, yeah,” he says, voice only a little squeaky, and yanks his eyes away from the interplay of muscles in Ronan’s back. He’s gonna have to step up his furtive wanking, while Ronan is off getting them both fed, or risk huge embarrassment at best, “I’ve never really seen myself dying in my sleep, y’know. Especially not from explosive decompression.”

“Hm,” Ronan huffs, smirking in his field of vision, and shifts a little on his perch, “dare I ask how you have seen yourself dying?”

“This is a very morbid conversation!” He retorts, and tries his very hardest to ignore the surge of warmth in his chest when Ronan only chuckles at him. Well, mostly. A brief smirk of his own can’t really do that much harm, right? “And the real answer is... I dunno, I suppose. Just not in my sleep, or in a bed at all. I’d rather face it on my feet, y’know?”

“I can understand that,” Ronan says, surprisingly gentle as he continues fiddling with the ceiling, “better to go with a scream, on your own terms, than have the decision taken away from you completely.”

“My mom...” He grinds to a halt, as Ronan glances suddenly down at him with those intense eyes. Looks away automatically, fixes his eyes on the stained wall opposite and breathes until the surprising surge of emotion in his chest calms down again, “um, it’s not important really. But she didn’t really get a choice, when she went. She didn’t really get a choice, y’know, _ever_. And as much as I loved her, love her, seeing her die like that-“

“Made you never want to go the same way,” Ronan says, still so gentle, and continues watching him for an ever so long moment. He doesn’t dare glance up, but the force of the gaze is like a caress against his skin, “I can understand that. I’ve always wanted to die in battle, myself.”

“Colour me surprised,” he snorts, so relieved by the slight change of subject that he feels half like he could actually float up off the bed and start helping Ronan with his repairs. He settles for slowly looking up instead, watching Ronan’s upper arms flex as he reaches for a particularly pernicious wire, “let me guess, in the last battle of a glorious war that returns the Kree to their rightful place as rulers of the universe?”

“Ideally,” Ronan smirks again, the sheen of sweat on his arms enough to be a bath by now. He briefly considers the thought of licking it, immediately has to glance away again to regain his breath, “but I would take any battle, any fight. As long as I die on my feet, staying true to my convictions... Well, I hope it will be enough.”

“Enough,” he says sceptically, “right.”

“And I hope,” Ronan says over him, ignoring his sarcasm with a professionalism that even Gamora would envy, “that I will be remembered as a hero by at least some of my people.”

“A... Hero,” he repeats, refusing to allow any of the scepticism to drain out of his voice. By the way Ronan stiffens a little, as if preparing for a fight, he gets the nuance absolutely perfectly, “remind me, are all the Kree in favour of destroying planets and causing chaos?”

“Many have abandoned the old ways, I admit, but...” Ronan hesitates for a second, shifts on his perch again. It’s already so unstable, he has to step down on the urge to get worried about it, “there are still enough who believe in the old ways, who will see the honour behind what I have done. And I hope that even those who disagree with me, who consider me a monster for my actions, will be able to see the motivations behind them. To see that I did it all for my people, sacrificed everything I could’ve been for the honour of us all.”

He stares for a long moment, all the urge to fight going out of him in a rush. The pity for Ronan is back, a hard stone at the heart of him that he can’t quite ignore, “this shit really matters to you, doesn’t it?”

“It’s the only thing that does matter, sometimes,” Ronan admits, so honest that it hurts. Shifts a little, then briskly gets back to work like he’s trying to leave the odd moment of sincerity behind. When he speaks again, softly, it’s in Kree and largely to himself, “ _give your life for your people, and bear the cost proudly._.”

He does that sometimes, mutters his own private thoughts to himself in Kree like he expects nobody else to care or even listen. Up until now he’s largely ignored it, sulkily left Ronan to his own pretentious grumbling because why on earth should he give a single shit about the guy? But now, with this sharing mood upon them and the pity still so firm in his chest... He brings his own slightly broken Kree out, answers Ronan as best he can, “ _I’ve always thought that dumb, really._ ”

And Ronan topples from his perch, falls straight to the floor like a stone and hits the metal with an entirely audible _thump_.

“Shit!” He yelps, and almost topples off the bunk himself in his attempt to get to the guy. He never thought he’d be feeling guilty in relation to Ronan the Accuser, of all people, but there’s no point in denying it now, “Ronan! Ronan, buddy, are you-?”

There’s a long pause, and then the blue pile of limbs on the floor groans lowly and slowly sits up. Ronan looks surprisingly like a rather annoyed cat, when he’s ruffled. The effect really shouldn’t be as endearing as it is, “I am absolutely fine, Qui- Star-Lord. The only thing really injured is my pride, and possibly certain areas of my skin.”

“Well,” he heaves in a deep breath of relief. Is embarrassed by it in the next moment, and sits back trying his very hardest not to blush, “that’s probably for the best.”

“Indeed.”

“It’d be kind of awkward if both of us broke our legs, after all!” He says, trying his very hardest to get right back to full levels of sarcastic cheer. It’s kinda hard, when Ronan is still in a puddle on the floor and is insisting on give him that full-intensity look, “Though I suppose we could always tie ourselves together, or something. Hop around and get stuff done that way.”

“Indeed,” Ronan repeats, and sits up slowly. Only wincing a little, as he settles himself into a new position, “I was not aware that you could speak Kree.”

“Oh,” he blinks a little, frowns as this knowledge sinks slowly in “...Well, you weren’t aware of a lot about me beforehand.”

“No,” Ronan admits, still slow.

“And now you are!” He continues chirpily, remembering their conversation of a few weeks ago now. He wonders if it’s always going to be like this with them now, the sudden realization followed by the frankly insane urge to get as close as possible. It’s gonna get harder and harder to deny that urge if this keeps happening, he can see it now, “it’s probably a good thing, really. Enables us to work better together, and stuff. Understand each other better, so we can start working on that whole honour complex of yours.”

“It could be seen that way,” Ronan agrees carefully, and smiles just a little. Like confirming his every fear and hope, in one gloriously heart stopping moment.

 

\--

 

The first few weeks he was on the planet he _maybe_ let his cleanliness standards lapse just a little, mainly because to keep them up would’ve required Ronan’s hands all over his naked body and that’s a prospect that still kinda terrifies him, but now that he’s feeling a bit better there’s no further need to delay. He might as well keep himself clean, after all. Fresh. Like a bouquet of flowers, or something even more appealing. Just in case, just on the outside chance that he might look across at Ronan one day and-

Well.

There’s a watering hole, a calm and glassy pond about ten minutes from where the Milano came down. He still can’t stagger there himself, even if he has gotten steadily closer to standing over the past few weeks, but if Ronan helps him to hop there it’s entirely easy from that point on. Only a matter of tugging off most of his clothes, hopping in the water and barely remembering to keep his leg up and away from anything that could seep.

“You are more muscular than I expected,” Ronan compliments him, helpful as always. He carefully holds that leg up out of the water, as easily as he’d pick up a rabbit-thing, “I knew you were athletic, you would not have survived as long as you did amongst the Ravagers if you were not, but...”

“You didn’t expect this buff bod,” he grins, paddling his arms a little to keep his head above the line of the water. The way that Ronan is looking at him right now, the weight of warm consideration almost like a caress against his skin... Well, he’d be a total idiot if he didn’t admit that it was all kinds of flattering, “that’s alright, not many people do. They tend to focus on the mouth, and not all the good stuff that lies underneath.”

“They do you a disservice,” Ronan’s eyes flicker up from his abs to his mouth, linger there with the same amount of interest, “I do you a disservice, sometimes.”

“You... You do better than a lot of people,” he defends, suddenly finding himself breathless again. Really, he should be used to this by now. It’s not like losing all the air in his lungs, all the thoughts in his head, is a rare thing around Ronan, “besides, it’s not like I don’t do you a – how do you put it – disservice just as often.”

“Oh?”

Ronan has gone shirtless again, has rolled up the legs of his trousers to avoid getting soaked by the water. He’s showing more skin than he ever has before, even while fixing the ship, and the result is somewhat... Distracting. His muscles are all kinds of stunning, every one of them a work of art like they’ve been sculpted in some studio. His skin is the most perfect shade of blue, one that he could happily drown himself in with only the slightest quibble. And his warmth, the feel of it pressed against his skin-

He gulps, aware that he can’t afford to lose any more air than he already has. Forces himself to keep meeting Ronan’s eyes, even when the man arches a brow at him again, “I focus a little too much on your terrifying qualities, and not enough on your physical qualities.”

“Oh,” Ronan repeats, softer. And looks so pleased that he kinda wants to take a photo of it, hang it up in his bunk as a nice memory to keep him warm at night, “but you focus on my physical qualities often?”

“Hey,” he says, hopefully not sounding too squeaky, and executes the best shrug he can without drowning himself, “I’m a connoisseur, and what kind of connoisseur would I be if I couldn’t appreciate the goods when they’re right in front of me?”

“A bad one, if I’m appreciating your meaning correctly,” Ronan agrees, looks briefly and fervently jealous before he narrowly manages to shake it off. A pity. That urge to push and push until the guy actively snaps is still bubbling just under the surface, and it’s getting ever harder to resist it, “you are aware that some people would say you focus too little on my terrifying qualities?”

“Uh, I suppose,” he mutters, still somewhat distracted by the thought of Ronan’s muscles pressed angrily up against him, “although that’d probably be the vast majority of people, to be honest.”

“Hm.”

“...Including you?”

“Not including me,” Ronan corrects, absent mindedly stroking his ankle in a gesture probably meant to soothe. It doesn’t actually succeed, all it does is make him increasingly glad that the water covers the area in between his legs, “I would say that you focus on my terrifying qualities exactly the right amount, but... A lot of people, relatively wise people, would say that you should be scared of me. That you should tremble at my very presence, scream at my very name, want to put a galaxy between us as soon as possible.”

“Ronan...” he hesitates for a moment, trying to gather his thoughts. The continuing touch of the man’s fingers against his ankle, ever so slowly stroking, hardly help matters, “I’ve been stranded on this planet with you for, what, almost two months now?”

Ronan’s eyes narrow slowly, Ronan peers at him with an expression that’d be downright adorable on anybody else, “I am not sure how relevant that is.”

“The whole fear thing may have been true at the start – y’know, when you shot my ship in orbit and stranded me down here – but it’s not true now,” he says slowly, trying to make every word sound as honest and truthful as possible, “I’ve gotten to know you. Eaten with you, slept next to your snoring, watched you almost brain yourself on my ship. I’m not scared of you, Ronan, and honestly? I’m pretty sure that I’m never gonna be scared of you again.”

Ronan stares at him for a long second, eyes gone dark. And for that second, the entire breathless stretch of it, he doesn’t quite know how they’re going to progress from here. Doesn’t know whether Ronan is going to smile at him, scowl at him, finally snap and lift him up and press them roughly together... “I do not snore, Starlord.”

“Get me out of here,” he grins in response, surprised to find himself relieved and disappointed in equal measure, “and I can build a recording device to prove it.”

 

\--

 

"Kree do not snore," Ronan is still insisting a fortnight later, with a level of stubbornness that would be all kinds of amusing if it wasn't directed at him.

"You say that," He snorts, looking up from his delicious meal of yet more fucking rabbit-thing, and making entirely sure that Ronan can see the roll of his eyes, "but I say differently. And guess what! The handy recording device that I built to settle the debate agrees with _me_."

"Then it must be inaccurate," Ronan huffs, glaring at him like it's a personal insult. It probably says several less than flattering things about him, that he's started to find that expression utterly _adorable_ more and more often lately, "or, possibly more likely, it has been meddled with to give the result you desired."

"Meddled... Wait, are you suggesting that I _rigged_ my handy dandy recording device?" He asks, torn halfway between honestly offended and honestly amused, "vicious slander!"

" _Truthful_ slander?" Ronan asks darkly, stares at him like he fully expects him to crumble and admit to his every single sin. No chance, that kind of shit stopped working a few weeks ago at _least_ , "Kree do not snore."

"You keep repeating that," he sniffs, rolling his eyes again, "so let me keep repeating that the _evidence_..."

"Is inaccurate. Or, as you put it, _rigged_ ," Ronan interrupts him, looking rather unsure whether to be pissed or not at his insolence. Ah, things really must be getting back to normal. He's even causing conflicted emotions in his nearest and dearest! "To suggest otherwise shows a fundamental misunderstanding of Kree culture."

" _Snoring_ is part of Kree culture now?" He asks incredulously, making sure that Ronan sees every single inch of his scepticism, "Bullshit. And even if it wasn't, I don't know exactly how you expect me to understand every little facet of Kree culture."

Ronan stares at him for a long second, outrage fading to confusion. He's honestly not sure which one he prefers, but he's pretty sure his sick puppy instincts lean towards the former, "I... What do you mean?"

"Well," he blinks a little, properly considers the question for a long few moments as Ronan stares at him, "you've hardly educated me on it, have you? Every time it comes up you just huff that I have no knowledge of it, insult me a little and then move quickly on with your brooding and Wabbit-hunting."

"Wabbit...?" Ronan's eyes narrow briefly at the reference, before he obviously decides to cast it aside and move on to more _edifying_ pursuits, "the burden of education is not-"

"Yours alone," he agrees amiably enough, watches as Ronan grinds to a halt again and continues watching him as if he's thinking things through, "which would be true if I knew any other Kree intimately, or if you weren't insisting on me being your mate, or if we weren't stranded all alone on a planet together with nobody else for light years around."

Ronan stares at him for a long and silent second, still considering, "it's probably not quite light years."

"Stop trying to change the subject!"

"I'm not," Ronan protests, without any real heat. Tilts his head for a long second, and then finally seems to decide on the best path forward, "not this time. Tell me, what do you know of my culture already?"

"Um," he says, suddenly put on the spot, and blinks. Doesn't miss the smirk that briefly curves Ronan's face, the arrant _amusement_ at how quickly their positions have flipped, "your original world is Hala, and a few of you are still settled there. Some of you are blue, some of you are pink. You're not really that religious most of the time, but if pressed some of you will start babbling about this Super Intelligence thing... And you're all really into wearing over the top eye-shadow?"

"Hm," Ronan says, and actually allows his smirk to remain as opposed to flying off to the land of disappointment and crushed dreams, "surprisingly accurate. Rhough it is the Supreme Intelligence, _not_ the Super Intelligence."

"Close enough!"

"And this 'eye-shadow' that you refer to is battle paint, a tradition kept from our very earliest days," Ronan tilts his head a little, fails to look too offended. Which is for the best, really. Guys who get all huffy about totally legitimate fashion choices are the _worst_ , "that seems as good enough a place as any to start. We are a very traditional race, as you have no doubt gathered."

"Well," he snorts, before he can really stop himself or think through the consequences of his actions, "some of you."

"...Some of us, yes," Ronan admits stiffly, lips pursing like he _desperately_ wants to say something, but restrains himself from anything more. Stares into the near distance for a long moment, before taking a deep breath and carrying on, "we have no gods, as you have gathered, but all right-thinking Kree value the words of the Supreme Intelligence."

"Who does kind of sound like a god," he mutters, raises his hands in apology when Ronan only glares at him for the slight, "but I'm guessing is not that! Let me see... Is he kind of like a cross between the president and a king?"

"A president?" Ronan mouths, as if turning the word over in his mind, "if I am thinking of the nearest galactic equivalent, then not as such. The Supreme Intelligence is an artificial intelligence, one created more than a million years ago. It is composed of the greatest Kree minds, our most successful generals and strategists and philosophers, working as one for a better future for all Kree."

"Sounds..." He starts carefully, trails to a halt as Ronan peers at him and immediately decides that what he actually thinks really isn't worth the risk, "nice, if kinda different from literally anything I've come across. What does this better future involve, then?"

"You're being tactful, I am honestly not sure how to respond to such an unexpected thing," Ronan says wryly, but somehow manages to refrain from pressing him any further. Stares into the near distance for another long moment, considering, and then turns back to him with a certain terrifyingly absorbing light in his eyes, "our society places the highest value on militaristic expansion, on spreading the glory of our people as far as possible and bringing as many as we can under our glorious rule."

"Whoa," he blinks, tilts his head a little as the information sinks in, "that's kinda..."

"Please stop trying to be tactful," Ronan interrupts him, with a wearily fond little roll of his eyes, "it would be terrible, if you strained yourself over something so pure."

"Terrifying, then," he obeys, and watches with some amusement as Ronan only sighs and fondly rolls his eyes again, "so you all think..."

"Most of us," Ronan corrects, frowns a little as if torn between utter beserker rage and a kind of quiet sadness that he never really expected from Ronan, "some of us, by this point."

"That the Kree way is best and that everybody else should follow it or else be horribly damned as a result?" He presses, watches as Ronan considers the question and then gives an ever so cautious nod, "as I said, _whoa_. So your culture is all kinds of - what was that word my mom used, when she was telling me about the Roman empire... Ah! All kinds of imperialist, then?"

"I suppose that would be an accurate word, yes," Ronan agrees, still cautious and thoughtful. Now that he pays more attention, the poor boy is almost looking _nervous_. Like he actually wants him to approve of the whole invasion-murder-stomping cycle of his society, "it is for the good of everybody. We are not bad rulers, once we have taken over. Our actions have actually led to much good on many worlds, such as-"

"Tell that to the people being invaded," he interrupts sceptically, refuses to acknowledge the drop of his stomach as Ronan's expression goes a shade sadder. They're talking about planetary conquest, he can't allow himself to go all _soppy_ , "you all think like this, then?"

"As I said, not all of us," Ronan says, slightly stiff. Glances away for a second, as if trying to reorder his thoughts, "the spread across the galaxy, while deeply beneficial for all of us, has turned several minds from the right way. But it _is_ the right way, and for those of us that were raised to respect tradition it is indeed the only possible way."

"Okay," he offers neutrally, putting a lot of effort in to not sound particularly approving or disapproving. Like _that's_ going to stop Ronan from being annoyed, or from looking like a kicked dog who just wanted a bit of a fuss, "if you were raised like that, by people who actually _thought_ like that, then it's no wonder that you feel no guilt over all the shit you've done."

He's expecting it to be just another neutral point, a way to continue their borderline argument without Ronan deciding to finally freak out and start yelling about the purity of his culture or anything like that...

He isn't expecting Ronan to look at him with those kicked puppy eyes, consider for a long and thoughtful second before dropping his gaze back to his plate and shrugging the stiffest shrug that he's ever seen, "who says that I feel no guilt?"

His jaw drops open immediately, his splutter is probably loud enough that Gamora can hear it wherever she is, but Ronan refuses to answer him. Only frowns a little, picks up his last rabbit-thing leg and starts slowly chewing.

 

\--

 

The watering hole isn't quite their 'place', because he's never really had a _place_ place before and he's not exactly gonna start now, but now that he's decided to start making an effort again they end up going there most days. It's peaceful, nice in a way that he hasn't really experienced for more than five minutes - the record time before various groups of warring aliens decided to start shooting at him for no apparent reason - before.

...Or, at least, it _was_. Before the whole guilt business came up.

Ronan isn't exactly sulking, probably because Kree do not _sulk_ , but he also most definitely isn't himself. He's quiet in the face of any snark, withdrawn in every single conversation, a miserable ball of stiffness at his side when they're trying to get to sleep at night. It's not like the guy was the very paragon of the party before, the thought raises a small smirk from him even now, but...

Well, he was _engaged_. And he misses that, more than he ever thought he would. He misses Ronan's wry smirk in response to his attempts to get a rise, Ronan's hands warm on his skin, Ronan's actual honest to god _smile_ whenever he made a particularly smart comment. He misses their days at the watering hole, Ronan holding him up easily in the water while he washed and then casually swimming rings around him afterwards. He misses their _conversations_ , the slow development from downright spiky to something close to teasing.

And he knew he no longer hated the guy, he knew they were edging towards the point of friendly acquaintanceship at the very least, but this is something else. The pain in his chest at their estrangement, and he himself is surprised that he remembers that word from his mother's old romance novels, is something akin to being parted from a lover. Something so sharp and so lasting that he's half starting to think that maybe Ronan has a point about the whole 'mates' thing.

... _God_.

"You're a good swimmer," he says one day down at the watering hole, out of desperation at this realisation. He's washed, as usual, but Ronan's hands were brisk and impersonal on his skin as he did so. Even now he's been pushed away to a distance of several feet, sitting on a rock and watching as Ronan cuts forcefully through the water, "but, then, you probably already know that."

"Thank you," Ronan replies stiffly, as he briefly breaks for air. Barely spares a glance at him as he flips, "it is always nice to hear a compliment."

"Were you trained in it, or did you use to do it for fun?" He asks, muffles a noise of frustration both at Ronan's _utter_ refusal to look properly over at him and his own stupidity in wanting that so much, "sorry, probably a stupid question."

"Not stupid," Ronan flips off the other end, surges back towards him with a detachment that would be terrifying if it wasn't so fucking _frustrating_ , "but perhaps irrelevant, in the light of our other conversations. My culture trained me to be a machine in all ways, this was but one of them."

"Ronan-" he starts hotly, bites his tongue at the last moment as Ronan only flips again instead of meeting his eyes, "that's not what I _said_."

"It's what you meant."

"Would you _please_ stop attributing incredibly inaccurate motivations to me, it's rude!" He snaps, takes in a deep breath as Ronan seems to treat this revelation with his usual level of utter indifference, "I only wanted to have a nice conversation with you about swimming."

"Oh," there's a long pause, and then Ronan flips again. The slosh of water, as he does it, is starting to become a sound that he can already tell will feature in a frankly depressing amount of his nightmares, "my apologies."

"I only want to have a nice _conversation_ with you," he says. Frustration, as ever, driving him onwards to his usual level of dumbness, "you know, like we used to have. A bit of teasing, a bit of taunting, the both of us smirking at the end like _normal_ people."

Another long pause. He doesn't know if Ronan is actually thinking, or just sinking ever deeper into himself, "I am hardly a normal person."

"I didn't mean-!" He grinds to a frustrated halt, clenches his hands into fists against his thighs. This must be how people feel like when they deal with him, sometimes. Suddenly he has a great deal more appreciation for... Every single person he's ever met, "no, okay, _fine_. I'm sorry I offended you, alright? Is that what you need to hear for things to go back to _our_ definition of normal?"

Ronan actually stills briefly in the water at that, half turns towards him. And he dares, for just a second, to hope... 

Nah, he should've known that that was dumb. In the next moment Ronan is surging again, leaving the moment behind him like he leaves all good things twisted and in the dust, "you did not offend me."

" _Ronan_!"

No response, but he knew better than to expect one after the last vicious crushing of his hopes and dreams. Which sounds melodramatic, as everything he does sounds melodramatic, but is _true_ in this case. The pain in his chest has solidified into something hard and heavy, something that weighs him down like a stone. He doesn't know what to do about it, but he knows that he has to do _something_.

"Ronan," he repeats, deliberately, and leans forwards before he can think better of it - still driven by desperation, the desire to force through whatever wall has come down between them, "Ronan, please, if you'd just _listen_ to me-"

His leg has been getting steadily better, to the point where that stubbornly lingering ache is barely a thing that he notices these days, but it's still by no means actually _healthy_. He takes one step on it, driven by desperation and hope and everything in between, and immediately crumples - flopping straight down to the floor with a burst of sudden pain seemingly designed to remind him what an utter fucking idiot he is.

 _Ouch_.

"Quill!" A moment, in which he stares up at the blue sky and laments every single one of his life choices, and then Ronan is there. Practically naked, pulling him into his arms with a level of borderline panic that is all kinds of flattering, " _Quill_."

"I'm fine," he winces, shifting gingerly. Regretting all his life choices anew, when his leg gives another accusing throb, "an idiot, but fine."

"An idiot," Ronan agrees darkly, open panic fading to a dark kind of concern that still looks pretty frantic from where he's lying, "what were you _thinking_ , Star-Lord?"

"So it's Star-Lord again now, huh?" He asks sullenly, tilting his head and taking the brief opportunity to appreciate the firmness of Ronan's arms around him. Who knows how long this'll last, before he's thrown out into the vicious cold yet again? "you weren't _talking_ to me."

"I recall saying words," Ronan says darkly, practically glaring down at him.

"Barely!" He only glares back. It's an expression that used to terrify him, but that now only produces a ferocious heat in his stomach. It makes him want to take and take and take, until they're _full_ of each other, "look, Ronan, you have to actually listen to me. I'm _sorry_ that I offended you, I'm sorry that I accidentally insulted your culture and you by association! I'm _sorry_. And you don't have to forgive me-"

A strange expression has come across Ronan's face, his glare has faded to an odd kind of vulnerability that would be all kinds of distracting if he wasn't so _furious_ , "Star-Lord."

"-But could you _please_ at least acknowledge that?"

There's another long pause, this one thankfully not interrupted by the slosh of water. Ronan sits back a little, exposing more of his bare chest. Continues to stare down at him with that ever so strange vulnerability, "you did not offend me."

" _Ronan_ , for fuck's..."

"You did not offend me," Ronan interrupts him, very slow and very deliberate, "but I know that I offended you."

The pause this time is so long that civilisations, planets and downright _universes_ are born and destroyed in the stretch of it. He stares up slowly, in utter shock. Ronan stares down at him flatly, a drop of water making its way slowly down between his pectorals as the moment stretches on.

"Okay," he manages to squeak eventually, capable of little more than sounding like a mouse pumped full of helium, " _what_?"

"It would take a great deal for you to offend me, Star-Lord... Such as injuring yourself again for no good reason," Ronan glares briefly, goes quickly back to that faintly miserable expression like he's sitting in a confessional where everything is on _fire_ , "but I am aware that the opposite is not true. I worship my culture, I have given my entire life to my culture without blinking, but I am aware that not everybody feels the same."

"I-" he blinks, so stunned that he half feels like pinching himself to prove that he's not dreaming, "I'm aware that I'm starting to sound like a broken record here, but Ronan-"

"And thanks to you I am aware that not everybody who disagrees is a foolish outlier who deserves to be purged," Ronan interrupts him easily, steamrollering over his objections like he does with most sensible things. Takes in a deep breath, then actually glances away like he's gearing himself up for some grand self-sacrificial gesture, "as such can you blame me for not wanting to force this upon you? For wanting to give you a choice, as best I-"

" _Ronan_!" But two can play at that game. He _scowls_ fiercely, jams his elbow right into Ronan's surprisingly muscular gut until the man reluctantly grinds to a halt and frowns down at him, "fuck, would you listen to me for two fucking seconds? I may not like your whole invasion culture thing, I may not even like the things that it's made you do for it over the years, but that does not mean that any attempt to talk about it offends me and that does _not_ mean that I hate you!"

Ronan stares down at him, struck briefly speechless. The drop of water finally reaches the end of its journey, slips under his waistband with no further ado, "you... Don't."

"No shit, Sherlock," he says sarcastically, watches with a faint surge of pleasure as Ronan's face screws up at the reference, "haven't I told you that already?"

"You told me that you weren't scared of me," Ronan tilts his head slowly, still so obviously confused, "that's hardly the same thing."

"It is in _my_ view, you stupidly sacrificial blue-goon," he huffs, glares at Ronan until the guy has no _choice_ but to give in. Start smiling just slightly, so genuine and bright that it's like an unexpected sunbeam right across his face, "look, Ronan, I _like_ you. And as much as I disapprove of some parts of your culture, of some parts of the stuff you've done... It's not enough to change that. You're funny, you're smart, you're so supportive that you kinda deserve all the medals for it. You're _nice_ to me, when you're not trying to be the most terrifying person in the whole galaxy. And it's going to take a hell of a lot to change that, trust me."

Ronan just keeps smiling, faintly helpless. They keep looking at each other firmly, anger fading to acceptance so quickly that it's kind of a miracle... And suddenly he's struck breathless. By the feel of Ronan's skin, so close to his own and still so very _warm_. By the genuine smile on Ronan's face, sunlight bright and so _open_ that he can barely believe that it was ever anything else. By the look in Ronan's eyes, the respect and the care and the _love_ so shining bright that it's all he can do not to open like a flower underneath it.

Shit.

Shit, he's got it _bad_.

"We should probably move to a more comfortable location," Ronan says eventually, not as a come-on but as an ever so gentle afterthought, "one better suited to your leg."

"Eh, I'm fine here," he offers honestly, and allows the knowledge to settle warmly around him like a blanket.

 

\--

 

Things go back to normal. Or, at the very least, their slightly warped and borderline crazy definition of normal. They fall back into their old patterns, like they were never paused for those few entirely terrible weeks. He teases Ronan, Ronan rolls his eyes at him in reply. They eat together, they fix the ship together, they fall asleep close to each other when the sun goes down and the battery powered torches that Ronan has rigged up start to run low. They're _happy_ together, and...

And the knowledge that he _likes_ Ronan remains around him like a blanket, an oddly comforting thought that he finds himself returning to over and over again.

He's never really had this kind of attraction before, the slow kind that starts off as an absent thought and blossoms into something close to consuming. His affairs before have been quick kinds - see a pretty alien, approach that pretty alien, wham bam thank you mam and off to another adventure in the morning. The longest attraction he's had before this has been a week at most, and the vast majority of them have faded away far quicker than that. He's used to his desires being an impermanent thing, easily dealt with and quickly ignored.

But with Ronan...

Ugh, he's going on like a teenage girl. Or more accurately, because the vast majority of teenage girls that he's met have been perfectly able of gutting him without batting an eyelid, one of those people in the faintly shitty romance novels that his mom used to own. But the fact is that his attraction to Ronan is an entirely different sort of thing, one that seems to grow and grow instead of fizzling out at the earliest opportunity.

He wants Ronan to hold him down, to pick him up, to push him against the nearest possible surface and have his way with him. He wants these things with such passion, such desperate _longing_ , that they're practically an undercurrent to his every single thought. He wants Ronan, he wants them together, and he's never wanted the White Picket Fence life that was peddled to him all through his childhood but... Well.

He half thinks, sometimes, that he wants as close as he can stand to that with Ronan. That he wants them to set up on his fixed ship, or maybe in Ronan's jail cell, and kick kids off their space lawn together. No matter how many things are in the way.

His leg, miracle of miracles considering some of the dumb stunts he's pulled, heals up pretty much on time. The ache had already faded, but one day he finds that he can lean on it without much pain. Then kneel on it. Then even stand on it with his arms outstretched and his body wobbling just slightly.

And he still wants.

The Milano still isn't quite repaired, but it isn't quite repaired in the way that it needs a few dents hammered out as opposed to an entire new life support system put in. On the outside it looks pretty much like his ship again, with only a few chips in the paintwork to show any differently. On the inside it’s still largely a chaotic tangle of wires, but more and more of those are disappearing by the hour.

And he still wants.

The sky above the planet is either dark blue or entirely black, but he's expecting it to light up with what remains of the Xandarian fleet any day now. He can't stop watching it on some nights, wondering if this will be the day when Gamora drops down from the sky like an avenging angel. He can't help but notice Ronan doing the same, peering up at the skies with resigned pride like he's willing to face whatever comes for him.

And he still wants.

He can feel their time together ticking down quickly, the things in the way growing ever more imminent like a threat in the air.

And he still _wants_.

The knowledge of the end, coming so very quickly, would've been enough to quash any of his other flirtations. But with this one, _this_ one, it only makes his desire sharper. Harder. More real, as opposed to a fantasy conjured up by a diet of rabbit-things and occasional roots. He knows that he should be patient, he knows that he should cross his legs like a good little boy and wait for his saviours to come pick him up and lock the bad man away...

But he's never been a good little boy. He starts to _plan_ instead.

"Your leg is healed," Ronan informs him one day, after about a week of him cheerfully hopping around by himself. The man is attempting to look pleased, but a reluctant kind of pain lingers around his eyes. He knows that their time is ticking down, just as surely as he does, "I worried that you would injure it again, but it is absolutely fine."

"Fine and dandy?" He manages to chirp as he rotates his ankle in Ronan's grip, despite feeling nowhere near as chipper as all that. The need for a plan still lingers inside his head, vague and annoying to the _extreme_ , "like a sunflower on a summer day, or a penguin who has just discovered some fish?"

"Such words you use," Ronan attempts a smile, one that looks rather sickly around his edges. Gently lowers his ankle down to the grass, carefully avoiding any further strain, "you are aware that I have no knowledge about anything you just said?"

"Not even a little?" He teases, wondering how he's going to turn vague and easily denied flirting into _results_ , "you've known me for months, Ronan. Are you sure that you haven't picked up _any_ of the lingo?"

Ronan stares at him for a long few moments, desperately trying to maintain the smile. It goes so badly that it actually pains him, he barely restrains himself from wincing in sympathy, "I am not quite sure. Tell me, Star-Lord, is a penguin some kind of plant?"

"Your lack of knowledge pains me," he sniffs, pauses for just a second - as Ronan gives a chuckle that sounds more like a death rattle - then decides that he might as well run with the most improbable option while he still can, "as does the fact that you always call me _Star-Lord_ , man. Like you don't even know my real name."

"...I know your real name," Ronan blinks at him, in mild confusion. Tilts his head like he half wonders if he's being mocked, "Star-Lord is your title, is it not?"

"Yes, but-"

"Your _preferred_ title," Ronan says, entirely correctly, and sits back a little on his haunches. Frowns at him, like he's wondering why he's picked this moment to be insane, "the one that you've been trying to get all to use for years now."

"Yes!" He takes in a deep breath, shakes his head a little to try and clear it. Fat chance, with Ronan still crouching in front of him and staring at him in concern, " _but_. That doesn't mean that I don't like being called other things, especially by people that I'm actually _close_ to as opposed to facing across a field of battle."

"Close to-?" Ronan starts mildly, a hint of that strange openness that he displayed that day by the watering hole trickling back into his eyes.

"Don't start that again," he snaps, feeling _utterly_ disinclined to get into another labyrinth of reassurances and debates about murder-cultures, "Of course I'm close to you, you dick. I just want to know _why_ you really keep insisting on calling me Star-Lord?"

Ronan remains silent for a long moment, thoughtful. He'd be faintly worried, that labyrinth risk again, but he's going to interpret that faint smile lingering on the man's face as an entirely positive sign, "I respect you."

"You respect _me_?" He asks, and is kind of stunned that he doesn't flat out faint from the shock.

"And so I want to use your title, to show you that respect," Ronan looks at him for a long second, seeming amused. Heck, even if this doesn't work out according to his vague plan at least he's snapped the guy out of his mopey-faced mopiness, "that is about the sum of it."

"Well," he blinks a little, still stunned. Has to consider for a long few seconds, to summon more words than incoherent squawking, "that's, uh, a lot more flattering than I was expecting. But have you ever considered that maybe you could respect me by using the actual name that my mother gave me instead?"

Ronan stares at him flatly for a long few seconds, the smile slowly dropping off his face "...Hm."

"Peter," he provides, when a few moments go past with that as the only reaction. He hasn't felt terrified around Ronan for a while now, but suddenly the feeling is back in _abundance_. Except less overwhelming, fluttering in his stomach like butterflies or incredibly cheap alcohol, "or, y'know, Quill. Quill works too, I'm _fine_ with Quill-"

"Peter," Ronan interrupts him slowly, deliberately, and starts to smile again. The fluttering in his stomach only increases at that, sending him shaky and slightly off centre, "I can call you Peter."

"I..." He starts, has to blow out a long breath before he can continue, "um, that's _good_. And while we're here-"

Ronan frowns a little at him, as he stalls. And he knows that he should probably take that as a cue to stop, as a hint that he should really be happy with the foundation that he's built and wait a day or so before he pushes any further...

But, eh, he's always been far too impatient for his own good, "you could always do other things too."

Ronan stills for a moment, the smile fading away again, "Peter?"

"Wow, that is going to be a distraction," he laughs a little, the fluttering in his stomach making him absurdly nervous. Has to forge on, before Ronan can prove himself the unexpectedly sensible one again and interrupt this whole farce, "you could stop looking so mopey, like you're resigned to losing me. You could stop treating me with kid gloves, like you're sure that I'm still so terrified by what lurks underneath. You could stop staring at me from a distance, like you think that you're never going to be allowed to touch... And you could stop acting so restrained, like you're the _only_ one who feels like this."

"Peter," Ronan says, softly, but it's not an interruption. It's more a breath, a sign of hesitation that he would've never thought Ronan capable of showing... Before he stranded them on this planet together.

"This is insane," he chuckles, like it's only just occurred to him. Like he's going to come to his senses and stop, like he actually _can_ do that, "literally, legitimately insane. I'm being an idiot again, a fool, a dick, a moron..."

It still doesn't stop him from leaning forwards, quickly before he can stop himself. And kissing Ronan on the mouth like he's been wanting to for ages.

 

\--

 

Ronan's lips remain frozen against his for a long second, and for the briefest moment he thinks that he may have slightly misjudged this. Not the feelings that Ronan has for him, because those are kinda so clear that they can be seen from space, but... The logistics of this. Has he misjudged the moment? The amount of force? The sheer _enthusiasm_ he's just thrown at the guy?

Ronan breathes out against his lips, long and shaky.

How far Ronan is willing to go? If he's willing to abandon purely theoretical attraction in favour of getting down and dirty? If he's actually _willing_ to do it out in the open like this?

Two blue hands come up, rough and even more calloused after a few months of dedicated ship-fixing. They curve around his biceps slowly, testingly as if feeling the muscle there and measuring how much pressure it'll need to move him.

The phase of the moon? The growth of the grass? The-?

And suddenly, so suddenly that it knocks all the remaining breath from his lungs, he's being _yanked_ fully into Ronan's orbit. Crushed against the guy’s muscular blue chest, and kissed so hard that he can practically feel his lips bruising in the aftermath of it.

Ronan is a forceful kisser, somehow even more than he was expecting. He kisses like it’s a battle that he's going to _win_ , puts such determination and enthusiasm into it that he half fears that his lips are going to drop off in the aftermath. Ronan is a passionate kisser, _definitely_ more than he was expecting. The man kisses him like he's water in the desert, cake after a fast, the best thing in the universe that he's totally considering _gluing_ himself too. Ronan is a _great_ kisser.

...And, yeah, he wasn't expecting that in the slightest. But that doesn't mean that he's not gonna grab it with both hands, and enjoy it as best he can.

For a few moments he's stunned, caught passively in Ronan's desperate embrace, but he's the one who initiated this whole damn thing and he's the goddamn _Star-Lord_ so he soon gets over his little trip. He digs his nails into Ronan's cheeks briefly, just to get a little _shudder_ out of him, and then moves to wrap his arms around the guy's broad back. Allows the kiss to continue for a long few moments, then _tugs_ as hard as he can.

It wouldn't work on most days, he was pretty much convinced that it wouldn't work _now_ , but he's given himself the advantage of Ronan being pretty much out of his mind with sudden and overwhelming lust. The man staggers forwards against him, set off balance, and his weight is enough to send them both tumbling. He lands on his back in the grass with a heavy _ooof_ , immediately has the breath knocked out of him again when Ronan comes tumbling down right after him.

"Star-Lord?" Ronan asks, seemingly knocked free from his stupor - at least a little - by the pained noise that he can't help making at that. His eyes are still so dark that they're pretty much just pupil, his lips are still wet and swollen with the force of his kissers, " _Peter_ , are you-?"

"Less talking," he demands, voice still high and whiny, and uses his grip around Ronan's neck to yank his mouth back into place, "more making me lose my goddamn _mind_."

He's already, from just a little kissing and groping and getting crushed into the ground, more aroused than he can ever remember being before. And that's saying something, he's been aroused a _lot_. His skin feels like it's on fire, several sizes too small for him and burning up with the friction. He looks at Ronan's mouth, at Ronan's _everything_ , and he wants to give and give and _give_ until there's nothing left of them but satisfied husks.

This, he realizes briefly as Ronan stares down at him with lust dark eyes, is probably a little unhealthy.

 _Fuck_ healthy, he decides in the very next moment as Ronan surges back against him with a rumbling growl, it's not like that's ever been any fun anyway.

They make out for a few moments more, messy and chaotic, and then Ronan decides to push it _further_. He plants one heavy hand on the ground besides his head, and scrambles the other desperately down his body. He feels his shirt, one of the only two or free that he has, strain and then _rip_ in the aftermath of it. Can feel himself becoming bare, entirely exposed to the air of the moon and Ronan's less than gentle administrations.

He doesn't care, has possibly never cared about anything _less_. Because Ronan is moving with purpose, and that purpose isn't just to shred his clothing and create so many awkward questions in the aftermath. His fingers find the bulge in his pants, now so hard that it actually fucking _hurts_ , and massage it for a long moment. He's not gentle, the press of him is enough to draw a strangled noise from his throat that even he isn't sure whether it's pleasure or pain.

Probably pleasure, because he's a sick puppy with a hell of a lot of taste. _Definitely_ pleasure, as Ronan's fingers press for a moment more and then dig in. _Rip_ his pants right down his body, the buttons and catches popping obediently loose as even his boxers are dragged quickly down over his hips.

"Ow," he says dumbly, as a particularly stubborn button digs into his stomach on its way down. And then, as Ronan slips down his body with only a mildly concerned tilt of his head: "hey, this isn't fair. I'm naked, and you're still-"

 _Fuck_.

...Okay, as it turns out the feeling of Ronan's mouth engulfing him is enough to make him forgive any number of unfair situations. Good to know.

Ronan peers up at him for a long few seconds, as if still slightly wary of his response, and only moves when he lets out a long groan and nods frantically. He starts off slow, so slow that it feels like a new and unfair kind of _torture_. His tongue slowly moves down the underside of his cock, as if tasting it, and seems to take _hours_ before it gets to the bottom. A brief pause, and then he switches to the topside like they have all the time in the _universe_.

Which, okay, technically they probably have close. But he's not in the _mood_ for logic with his secret fantasy space boyfriend actually _sucking_ his cock. He whines pointedly a few times, and then decides that Ronan has always responded better to direct encouragement. Reaches down, and scratches at the guy's shoulders in a desperate plea, "come _on_ -"

Ronan, who has been focusing on the cock sucking like it was his new mission in life, peers up at him again briefly. He's not entirely sure of anything at the moment, considering that his nerves are all on fire and his brain is dribbling out of his ears, but he thinks he sees a flash of _amusement_ lingering in the guy's eyes.

Dick. He arches his hips up needily, whines again in his most imploring and attractive manner, " _Ronan_ -"

It gets results, although not exactly the results that he was expecting. The man huffs low in his throat, the vibrations enough to make him throw his head back against the ground, and presses one heavy arm down over his hips to keep him in place. A long moment of consideration, where he feels like he might actually _die_ , and then he shifts just slightly - finally starts moving his head like he actually gets what the concept of a blow job is.

An evil blow job, at any rate. Ronan starts actually sucking him, as opposed to just giving him a thorough examination with his tongue, but does so as slowly as he possibly can. His lips drag over his cock at a speed seemingly designed to make him lose his mind, and then back again. His tongue moves slowly, curling around him like carefully tasting the very finest of wine. He keeps pausing for breath, the pressure of the air a caress against his skin that might well actually send him to an asylum at this rate.

He tries another needy buck, lets out an utterly _frustrated_ noise as Ronan only presses him down into the ground harder.

But apparently the guy isn't entirely an evil blow job genius, and apparently he _does_ have mercy lurking somewhere deep in his sexual deviant soul. He starts moving a little faster, still nowhere _near_ enough to satiate the hard knot in his stomach... But faster. He actually starts bobbing his head, as opposed to just slowly moving it. Curls his tongue teasingly a little less, and focuses on the glorious suction a little more. He grunts in pleasure, groans in pleasure, _moans_ in pleasure. Throws his head back again, a little more gently this time, and settles in for the ride-

Just as Ronan slows down again. 

He squeaks, actively _offended_ , and desperately pushes himself up to glare again. Ronan only peers up at him, obviously amused as his tongue does that little curling thing that he can already tell is going to drive him _mad_... And then speeds up again, just as he's in a position where he's unable to stop himself from flopping onto his back with an entirely painful amount of force.

It goes on like this for a few moments, maddening slowness alternating with a pace that teasingly brushes the edges of speed. Ronan seems adept at waiting until he's off guard, at teasing his expectations until he's practically sobbing at the unexpectedness of it. His tongue is a weapon deadlier than any he's ever faced, the press of his mouth one just a step behind. He sucks like he's a professional, like he _loves_ to do it. He sucks like this is his true vocation, the galaxy threatening a distant memory in favour of killing people with the very slightest press of his tongue.

He still feels like he's on fire, but now he feels like he's been on fire for a while and is hovering on the very edge of falling into the inferno. His skin feels over-sensitised, the brush of Ronan's tongue and the grass squashed under his back torturous touches against his skin. His eyesight has gone hazy, the sky a blue smudge above them and the only clear thing Ronan hovering so dedicatedly between his legs. His throat feels scraped raw, the groans and moans and _screams_ that he's been building up to having scraped it to something husky and strange.

He whimpers, pleading and desperate and not really expecting relief-

And Ronan surprises him, yet again. There's another peering moment, another assessment like Ronan would rather look at nothing but his face, and then the man lets out another rumbling groan around him. Tightens his grip before he can give more than a slightly puzzled twitch, and _deep throats_ him without a word of warning. He thought he was pretty much gone, just a burnt out cinder curled around the sheer force of his arousal, but that deceptively simple motion is enough to send him surging back to full life. He gasps, he bucks, he digs his fingernails hard into Ronan's ever so broad shoulders and squeezes his eyes shut so tightly that he might well go blind in the aftermath-

 _Motherfuck_.

-And he comes. Right down Ronan's throat, screaming so loudly that he half expects Gamora - probably surging through space right now with the entire Xandarian fleet at her heels - to hear it and turn swiftly on her heel.

He's pretty sure that he whites out in the aftermath, because holy fucking _fuck_ , but when he does come back to himself it's to Ronan's lips warm against his and the grass _still_ tickling his back like some kind of goddamn torture. He's still so far gone that even such a gentle touch borders on pain, but he's hardly going to deny Ronan after all of that. He wraps his arms firmly around the guy's neck again, opens his mouth and allows their tongues to lazily tangle. The taste of himself on Ronan's tongue is less sharp than before, almost _pleasant_ in an odd sort of way. Maybe it's another Kree superpower, to make even the most unpalatable of things taste like manna.

...Mm.

Ronan is the one to break the kiss first, mainly because he's just too goddamn lazy to do so. He butts their foreheads together, an affectionate gesture, and stares down at him like he can't quite believe what's just happened, "hello."

"Hi," he says, a touch dreamily, drags Ronan down into another full body kiss that still kinda hurts... But in a good way, "oh."

"Oh?"

"You're still hard," he says curiously, summoning just enough energy to move his hand down and cup Ronan gently through his pants.

"Pe- _ter_ ," Ronan groans, a punch of air that sounds almost painful. Turns his head away briefly, as if desperately trying to control himself even after all _that_ , "I am fine, there is no need to worry."

"You're still _hard_."

"And that is fine," Ronan keeps his head turned away, arching his back and rather desperately digging his fingers into the ground as he continues to explore the apparently _considerable_ length of him, "you are tired, I have tired you. I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself and..."

He considers for a second, as best he can. Summons up his most devilish smirk, and reaches out to drag Ronan's head right back in his direction, "don't be an idiot."

"Peter-"

"There's some oil by the ship," he interrupts deliberately, takes a certain amount of _joy_ in the way that Ronan's eyes immediately go dark again, "if you can find it in, oh, roughly under a minute I am totally game for letting you come inside me too."

Ronan stares at him for a long moment, jaw actually dropping open in the kind of hilarious shock he thought only existed in movies.

"You know," he says, never more pleased to be wrong, and keeps up his smirk as best he can. Watches as Ronan's dark eyes drop to his lips, linger there like he wants nothing more than to kiss him for eternity, "if you are."

A long pause, and then the man scrambles quickly in the direction of the ship like his very life depends upon it.

 

\--

 

“Hey,” he manages about two days later, throat scraped so raw from the amount that he’s been screaming that it’s a miracle he can make words at all, “hey, Ronan.”

There’s a low groan from the blue figure slumped on top of him, and for a long moment he thinks that he’s actually killed the guy and that’s all he’s going to get... But Ronan is strong, and Ronan is determined, and Ronan is obviously not ready to die before he’s fucked him into the ground a few more times. The man remains still for a long moment, then gives another almost fond groan and finally pulls out of him. Another long moment, and then Ronan actually manages to look up at him with that same fondness lingering in his eyes, “hello, Peter.”

They’ve been fucking for days now. Not exactly straight, but close enough that it would almost be indistinguishable to most life forms. He’s always had a refractory period about as hyperactive as himself, it’s often been more of a curse than a blessing, butut Ronan... Ronan, if anything, seems to have an even better one than him. They match each other at every turn, tangle stamina and penises like equals, drive each other to the highest of heights-

“Are you just going to sprawl there and grin at me all night?” Ronan asks wryly, reaching up one actually shaky – shaky! – hand to press warmly against his cheek, “and if so, is it alright if I sleep until you’re done?”

He turns his head into the touch briefly, grins up at Ronan. He can still feel the burn of the guy inside him, the delicious stretch of his cock, “tired you out, big guy?”

“You are undeniably tiring, in every sense of the word,” Ronan comments blithely, actually manages to summon up a chuckle at his offended huff. The guy seems less out of breath than he is, but the truth will out – the sound of his laughter is slightly ragged, scraped raw from all the far too attractive yelling he's been doing, “but... Not quite. I did not really think that I’d have this, you see. I am determined to appreciate it for as long as I can.”

That... Is both faintly sweet and undeniably sad. He bites his lip for a moment, reaches out to drag Ronan into another brief and uncoordinated kiss, “I thought you were just beavering on, expecting me to give in to your manly charms.”

“It started off that way, continued that way for a time,” Ronan admits softly. Not bashfully, because he’s pretty sure that the guy is actively incapable of that, bit as close to it as he can get, “but... By the time you started to get better, to actually recover, I had resigned myself to it being yet another thing that I was not allowed to have.”

“...You know how I called you a self-sacrificial blue goon once?” He asks casually, waits until Ronan peers down at him in confusion before he slaps the man’s arm, “still applies, you idiot, that was just when I was starting to become open to it!”

“Oh,” Ronan stills for a long moment, seeming faintly stunned. He waits him out, as patient as he can be considering everything, “I did not realise.”

“I gathered that,” he snorts, rolling his eyes. Ronan doesn’t seem to take offence, only tilts his head and stares down at him with a faintly wondering smile that will do any amount of things to his libido in just a few more minutes, “I mean, I was kind of attracted to you beforehand to be fair. But in a kind of ‘read too many romance novels as a kid’ sort of way, as opposed to a ‘would actually act on my desperate desire to fuck the brains out of you’ sort of way.”

“Really?”

“Don’t smirk like that,” he complains, though not with too much heat. He likes Ronan’s smirk, just as he likes all of Ronan’s expressions beyond terrifyingly deadpan galaxy destroyer, “and even after that, I will admit that it was still kind of complicated. There’s a lot between us, you know. And what with my broken leg added into the mix, and the need to rebuild the ship...”

Ronan doesn’t respond this time, only keeps staring down at him with that wry smirk fading into something a great deal more sincere.

“...Anyway!” He internally kicks himself, forces a grin back onto his face and decides to end on the most positive note that he can possibly muster, “I was still open to it, dude! Practically on the point of opening my legs and inviting you just to have at it!”

“An appealing image, I will admit,” Ronan purrs, faintly amused again. That odd sincerity still lingers in the guy’s eyes, though, trailing over his skin like an intimate caress, “unfortunately I have never been that good at picking up such subtle cues, or indulging in such borderline unrealistic fantasies, or... People, really.”

“I never would’ve guessed,” he says wryly, gives his own smirk as Ronan only chuckles at his sarcasm yet again, “it’s a good thing that I forced the issue, huh?”

“A very good thing, I suppose,” Ronan pauses, still hovering over him. The heat of him is faintly absurd, the press of his muscles divine, the regard lingering in his eyes... More than he’s ever expected or received from anyone, in all his life, “it means that we get to have this, however briefly before your friends arrive to take you back.”

He stares for a long moment, stunned by the reality of the statement. The thought, that one day soon all this – all the things he’s literally just realised that he can have – will be taken suddenly away from him.

“Peter?”

He grunts, not quite sure how the hell he should respond to that, and reaches out, drags Ronan into another desperate kiss and decides to forget the matter. Just for now, as best he can.

 

\--

 

Things slowly go back to normal after that, or – as ever – at least their weird and faintly warped version of normal. Ronan goes back to working on the ship, he goes back to making sarcastic comments and throwing wrenches in the guy’s general direction. They both go back to watching the sky, expecting it to light up with a whole fleet of slightly murderous ships at any moment. It’s nice, relatively peaceful, almost calm...

Oh, and they keep fucking too of course. Can’t forget that.

He kinda wasn’t expecting it, the insane amount of chemistry that they have between them. He imagined it beforehand, of course, from vague sick puppy musings to desperately wanking himself off when Ronan was away hunting rabbit-things... But even then he never quite expected _this_. 

It’s explosive, every single time they come together. It’s like jumping into the heart of a volcano, getting caught in the middle of a gunfight, drifting in outer space without a mask. The grip of Ronan’s hands on his hips makes him feel like he’s on fire every time, the brush of his lips makes him feel like flying, the feel of him inside makes him think that he could just dissolve into the universe at any moment.

And oddly enough, the chemistry doesn’t just extend to the sexual.

He looks at Ronan, covered in grease and working on the ship, and gets light headed. He glimpses Ronan’s smile, watching over him as he chows down on some tasty rabbit-thing, and his heart grows several sizes. He finally drifts off at night next to Ronan, with one warm arm wrapped around his waist and a muscular chest against his back... And he’s home.

It’s stupid, really. Silly, at best. Heart stoppingly terrifying, at worst. And yet he just can’t help it, he just can’t stop being totally and utterly _gone_.

...So, like with all terrifying things, he decides to poke at it.

“Hey, Ronan,” he says one day, casually perching in the pilot’s chair and swinging his legs as Ronan adds a few final touches to the navigation system, “you never told me how you found our little love nest in the first place.”

The ship is pretty much fixed now, to the point where it could probably even go into space without exploding, but they’ve both silently decided not to push the issue. To push it would mean taking action, leaving the rock and coming to a decision about what to do afterwards. He’s perfectly fine with delaying that, as long as there are badly grouped wires to frown over, and he suspects Ronan feels much the same.

Ronan, who looks torn between confusion and amusement at his statement, “is that what we’re calling it now?”

“Well,” he huffs, pulls out his most beseeching pout. The one that always made Gamora slap him on the back of the head, the one that always makes Ronan roll his eyes and give him everything he’s ever desired, “it’s not like I know the actual name, or anything.”

“Really? I would’ve thought that Gamora...?”

“She did,” he admits slowly, summons up an awkward shrug as Ronan turns to give him a faintly incredulous stare, “but, uh, I _may_ not have been listening at the time. I was focusing on piloting the ship through space! And then on getting the ship into the atmosphere. And then on sulking because they wouldn’t let me come along.”

“Peter...” Ronan huffs, looking more fond than annoyed. It’s the kind of expression that he wears a lot of the time now, possibly just to distract him, “we are on the planet Kree-Lar, in the Turunal system.”

“There. Was that so hard?” He asks triumphantly, nudges Ronan’s shoulder when the man only sighs and flops down at his side, “you still haven’t told me how you found it, though.”

Ronan frowns up at him for a long moment, considering. He briefly gets the impression that he may well be out of his depth, may well have just poked the bear harder than intended, but shoves it aside in favour of another encouraging nudge to Ronan’s shoulder “...It used to be the seat of my family.”

“Oh,” he blinks, not having expected that at all. Huh, maybe he really should’ve listened to Gamora’s doubtlessly detailed explanation a little more closely, “okay. Is there something you’re not telling me, buddy...?”

“There are only small creatures here now,” Ronan says with a roll of his eyes, obviously having grasped his meaning. Which is good, because as fine as he is with fucking a Kree even he draws the line at something a few steps away from a rabbit type thing, “but sixty or so years ago, things were entirely different. My father was born on this planet, and my grandfather before him, and-“

“No need to go all the way back into your family history,” he interrupts hastily, finding it hard not to notice the way that Ronan’s shoulders have risen up to roughly around his ears, “...What happened?”

“The war with Xandar was at its peak then, a galaxy spanning fight as opposed to the few scattered skirmishes that it has now become,” Ronan says, obviously trying to sound detached. The effect is somewhat ruined by his still stiffened shoulders, the faint tremble in his hand that he’s trying very hard to hide, “Kree-Lar was our military capitol back then, and the centre from which most of our strikes were planned. The Xandarians discovered this, and... Dropped a bomb.”

“A bomb?” He blinks, suddenly uncomfortably reminded of the few history classes that he actually paid any attention in, “you mean like... A nuclear bomb?”

“A chemical weapon,” Ronan corrects him, but entirely fails to look smug. His face has grown drawn, pinched and mournful in a way that he’s not entirely sure how to react to , “containing a strong dissolving agent, though our scientists have never quite been able to divine what exactly that was. Our operation centre here was effectively destroyed, although some ruins may well remain under the waves that swallowed them. My father, who was barely more than a child at the time, was sent off planet with my grandmother... But my grandfather perished in the blast, along with several others.”

He gawps, well aware that his jaw has unhinged and not quite sure that he’s capable of forcing it back into place “...And we’ve been exposing ourselves to the remains of it for all this time?”

“There are no remains,” Ronan says shortly, as he immediately takes the opportunity to mentally kick himself for being an utter insensitive moron, “the reaction was violent at the time, yes, but it burnt itself out surprisingly quickly. It is perfectly safe to be here. The reason that the Kree have not resettled this world is due to politics, not safety concerns.”

“So... Xandar destroyed a planet, murdered countless numbers of your people, and then made a treaty forbidding you from doing a single thing about it?” he summarises slowly, watches as Ronan gives an ever so stiff nod, “wow, no wonder you’re pissed. That’s about as bad as anything else the Kree have done, far worse than anything you’ve done. And they have the nerve to act like they’re the good guys-“

“Peter,” Ronan interrupts him, sounding reluctant. When he finally looks down again the man looks even more like he’s come from the grave, frowning uncomfortably in the face of such understanding, “your defence of me is appreciated, and I will not deny that I hate the Xandarians for their actions, but... It wasn’t countless numbers.”

He blinks, settles back in his chair as the outrage fades to confusion, “uh?”

“It was a hundred,” Ronan looks uncomfortable for a long moment, glances away briefly as if desperately trying to fix that almost discarded mask of indifference back on his face, “the Xandarians warned us beforehand, gave my people a chance to evacuate. Those that were killed chose to remain there, as a symbol of defiance against those who dared to defy their right to own the galaxy.”

“...Okay.”

“The war was more equal than any of us like to pretend, but The Kree still acted worse within it,” Ronan just keeps talking, ignoring his cautious comment. Once set loose, it seems like he can’t stop himself. It’s like a flood, an endless flow of guilt just bursting out of him, “I have still acted worse, within it. The Xandarians tried to avoid civilians as best they could, the Kree gleefully slaughtered them. The Xandarians focused only on their actual enemy, the Kree made war on anybody even tangentially linked. The Xandarians warned people before they destroyed planets, the Kree... _I_ was prepared to destroy a whole planet containing millions of people without even an attempt at mercy.”

“Ronan,” he whispers, reaches out to try and force the man’s shoulders down before he does himself an injury, “Ronan!”

“I am a murderer,” it doesn’t do much good, he exerts as much pressure as he can but Ronan will not be moved. His eyes have taken on a somewhat glossy sheen, staring into space like he’s reliving the past in vivid detail, “and a butcher, and probably worse besides. I did it all for my people, I know, but that is little comfort most of the time. Especially not at night-“

“ _Ronan_ -“

“-When I see all the people that I’ve killed standing there, staring at me,” Ronan only swallows, ignores his attempts to distract and just continues staring numbly into space, “judging me. When the whimpers catch in my throat, probably sounding almost like snores to the untrained. When the nightmares come-“

Oh, _fuck it_.

He decides to move past all the conventional means of distraction, since they’re obviously not working anyhow. Slides off his chair, and presses his lips to the man’s mouth until he eventually stops talking. It takes a while, a long while since Ronan has apparently got a lot saved up, but eventually-

“Peter,” Ronan says softly when he finally draws back. Eyes a little more alert, a little less numb, “I-“

“You feel guilty, sure,” he interrupts quickly, not willing to let Ronan start eating himself again. Because, hell, that’s really not gonna be fun for either of them, “you’ve done terrible things, I’m not denying that! But the fact that you feel guilty about those terrible things shows that you’re not defined by either of them.”

Ronan stares at him for a long second, eyes still alert and faintly... Damp? The most terrifying man in the Kree empire, the man that he’s dangerously close to actually caring about, is on the point of tears in front of him. His life has gotten so fucking weird lately, “then what am I defined by? What can I possibly be, outside of the things that I’ve done? The culture that I come from?”

“...I don’t know,” he admits. Decides that he’s here for this no matter how weird it gets, as he lifts his hands up and presses them softly to either side of Ronan’s face, “but I’m willing to help you find out, if you are.”

A long pause.

And then Ronan blinks once, the threatening tears vanishing quickly from his eyes, and gives the smallest smile. Leans forward to kiss him again, like he’s water in the desert and Ronan never ever wants to let go.

 

\--

 

Ronan is good in bed.

Okay, no, that’s inaccurate. For one thing they don’t so much have a bed, as a collection of motley surfaces that Ronan is perfectly happy to push him up against (and down to, and sideways at). And for another thing to call Ronan good in bed is kinda an insult so bad that he’s amazed the Super Intelligence – Supreme Intelligence, whatever – doesn’t come down in a spaceship and smite him for it.

Ronan is _great_ in bed.

He’s strong, he’s fast, and he’s thorough. He fucks kind of like he’s in the middle of a battle, a sexy battle that he super cares about. His tongue can do divine things, his hands know every single button to press and his cock... Man, that thing has a mind of its own. He’s the kind of partner that he’s always furtively dreamed of, in his private wanking sessions where only perfection has been allowed to get him off. He makes him come screaming every single time, and if that’s not to be appreciated he doesn’t know what is.

So can you really blame him for wanting to make it up to the guy a little? To make the screaming orgasm score more equal, especially in the light of that odd vulnerability he’s been showing lately?

They still go to the watering hole regularly, perhaps even more regularly now that they need to clean themselves up more often, and so that’s where he bases his fiendishly and dastardly plan around. He doesn’t have much time to hammer out the details, half a day at most, but Gamora and co could drop from the sky and take this idyll away at any moment. Speed and passion are of the essence here, not careful plotting.

Ronan deigns to paddle with him a while, even strips naked and allows him to appreciate the muscles of his body with a fond little smile, but eventually gives an entirely predictable sigh and swims smoothly back to the shore. Settles in to rest there, like he’s the totally mature party and not the slightly ridiculous Kree that teasingly fingered him for at least half an hour just this morning.

He does another few laps, trying to build up the nerve, before he reminds himself about _Gamora and co_ and, completely separately, _screaming orgasms_. Finally drags himself from the pool, and crawls over to where Ronan is sprawling.

The man is on his back, soaking in the warm sunlight like the cat his grandfather had when he was little. Highlighted by the sun he’s gorgeous, blue skin glinting and muscles so perfectly formed that his mouth actually goes dry at the sight of them. His eyes are closed against the sun, but when he comes to a hovering crouch straddling his abdomen he smiles a lazy smile, “Peter.”

“God, I love the way you say my name,” he murmurs, and leans in to give Ronan a kiss. The man responds eagerly, with such passionate force that it’s kinda hard to remember to stick to the _plan_ “...Hey. Turn over for me, would you?”

Ronan arches a faintly sceptical brow, and he thinks for a moment that his request is about to be refused... But no. Ronan trusts him, about as much as he’s started to trust Ronan. A brief shift of his shoulders, a stiff version of a shrug, and then Ronan is turning in the hollow created by his legs. Turning all the way, until he’s lying on his front with his head pillowed in his arms.

Kree are biologically pretty damn similar to humans. Not that that really matters, he’s fucked _all_ sorts in the years he’s been in space, but it makes it kinda easier to know where to start. He kisses the back of Ronan’s neck, throwing in a teasing caress of his tongue. Starts mapping his way down the man’s broad back like he was born to do it.

Ronan murmurs happily when he digs his teeth into the back of his neck, and only relaxes further as he moves down his body. The kisses he peppers over the man’s shoulders get a pleased wriggling, the tongue he slides down his spine gets a low sigh. He only reacts with a pleased grunt when he bites at his blue hip, actually reacts with a softly mumbling moan as he follows that up with the trace of teeth across one cheek. Doesn’t really react at all, in fact.

Until-

“Peter!” Ronan gasps, voice suddenly dipping right down into its lower register as he surges right up on his elbows, “what-?”

“Hush,” he says huskily, and briefly dips his tongue back in. Traces right along the warmth of Ronan’s crack, making sure to flutter his tongue along the way, “just let me hear you, alright?”

Ronan remains stiff for a long moment, and he briefly thinks that he’s blown it. That his clever tongue won’t be enough this time, and that the man is going to shake him off and go back to awkward staring for a few days at least... But then he pushes the tip of his tongue right up against Ronan’s entrance, in an act of borderline desperation. And the man lets out a long sigh, flops slowly back down onto his front like his bones are melting right out of him.

He hasn’t done this for a while, but god does he love it when he does. It’s exactly the same as what Ronan likes about giving head, what he confessed one night while they were lying spent. It’s the dominance combined with the vulnerability, the taking of control in focusing on your partner’s most vulnerable part coupled with giving up of control in allowing your mouth to be fucked. The mixture takes the whole thing to another level, turns a relatively simple physical act into something completely fucking magical.

He starts slowly, not wanting to push Ronan’s nerves too far. He licks as gently as he can, fluttering his tongue over Ronan’s entrance to try and get the guy to loosen up. It won’t hurt him, if he isn’t relaxed, but it will be a hell of a lot easier for all of them. Not to mention a hell of a lot more fun.

And Ronan does remain tense for a long moment, sure. But then he slowly starts to rock back into it, and then he lets out a soft groan, and then a moan follows the groan so quickly that it kind of feels like a miracle.

He likes miracles, almost as much as he likes causing them. Encouraged by this, he starts licking in earnest. Properly tastes the length of Ronan’s entrance, trying to encourage that good old relaxation even more. He’s glad he took them to the watering hole, to do this. He can taste Ronan properly here, the slightly coppery salt of him and the entirely unique musk that lingers underneath. He could get addicted to that taste, if he doesn’t watch himself very closely.

Ronan’s soft moan turns into multiple moans, steadily increasing in intensity. Before long he’s actively keening. His arms having unfolded in front of him, to dig desperately into the long grass around his head. It’s like he’s already losing himself, desperately trying to remain restrained in the rush of it.

He rapidly decides that he dislikes restraint almost as much as he likes miracles, decides to up his efforts the moment after. Ronan’s entrance is ready, desperately trying to remain tense in theory but utterly relaxed to his touch in practice. It takes only the slightest shift, the slightest bit more pressure – and then his tongue is sliding inside Ronan, flexing casually against the man’s inner walls. He only teases a little initially, feeling the taste of Ronan’s musk grow stronger and stronger on his tongue, but for now-

Ronan actually borderline screeches, a keen so high and long that it kinda hurts his eardrums, and clutches the grass so hard that he actually rips chunks of it up. Robbed of that desperate form of restraint, he starts thrusting backwards as if desperate for the feel of his mouth. Desperate to be licked open, to be fucked with his tongue.

He can oblige, Supreme Intelligence bless miracles. The time for teasing is over. He withdraws his tongue one last time, and then actively thrusts it back into Ronan’s body. The taste of the man’s musk is strong in his mouth, he’s so hard against the grass that it kind of hurts yet again, but both of those are just pleasant side details. This is about Ronan, about Ronan’s pleasure. He fucks his tongue in so hard that it actually goes numb in the aftermath, makes sure that he’s hitting every nerve that he possibly can, makes sure that he’s giving Ronan the ride of his life-

And Ronan groans, as if abandoning his last restraint. Ronan moans, desperate and wanton as he rocks his hips back. Ronan keens, fingers scrabbling over the grass with such obvious need. Ronan actually _screams_ , like he’s never felt anything quite like it before.

And-

He twists his tongue, one final time.

 _And_ -

Ronan comes all over the grass, messy and copious and with a shout so loud that it can probably be heard in space. Definitely almost makes him come himself, desperate and needy with the sudden knowledge of just how much he cares.

 

\--

 

He never really had any romantic role models when he was growing up. His mom was too busy pining after his good old daddy, the mysterious apparent alien dude that knocked her up then fled to the stars, to ever give her heart to anybody else. His grandfather was a widower from before he was born, his unknown grandma succumbing to the same cancer that eventually took his mom. The most he ever had were his mom’s old romance novels, dog-eared things that even an eight year old could tell presented a warped view of the world at best.

He knows what it’s like to be loved, and even what it’s like to love in return. He was dearly loved by his mom and grandpa, knew it so well that he still misses them desperately even now, and adored them. He knows that his team of guardians love him in their own special way, and he loves them just as much. But he’s never really known what it’s like to be in love – to want to tear down walls with passion, to feel perfectly prepared to fight the universe to just keep one person safe, to want the wellbeing of that person so passionately that you'd happily throw your own health aside just to ensure it.

...Until he met Ronan.

Ridiculous, he knows. They’ve been stranded here for only a few months, most of that time spent hating the guy, and that’s hardly enough time to form so deep an attachment. It’s infatuation, at very most. His dick overruling his head yet again, at very least. This is a trick, a fancy. This is an indulgence that can’t possibly last.

But.

There’s the fizzy feeling in his stomach every time he looks at Ronan, sure, not to mention the mind-blowing sex. But there’s also something deeper, realer feeling. There’s Ronan going to sleep at night, his arm wrapped firmly around his waist like he’s never gonna let anything get to him. There’s the way he still insists on hunting all the rabbit-things down, on shoving extra portions onto his plate when he thinks he’s not looking. There’s the way he _Looks_ at him, after they’ve finished fucking or while they’re at the watering hole or when he’s made a particularly terrible joke, like he’s the most precious thing in the universe.

Gamora and her Xandarian crew are due by now, if not overdue. Their nights have settled into a kind of routine, finding pleasure in each other and then settling in a loose heap to watch the stars. He hasn’t spoken that much with Ronan about it, but that’s because he knows what they’re both waiting for. A sudden flash of light, a brief pause, Gamora coming down from the sky like an avenging angel, so on, so forth.

It gives him time to think, at least. Possibly too much time, considering the warrens his mind tends to run down, “hey, Ronan?”

“Peter,” Ronan deliberately pitches his voice down, like an asshole.

“Have you thought about what you’re going to do,” he shudders a little, is somewhat disappointed to find himself still spent. Apparently an hour isn’t quite enough to get back on the ball, stupid body, “you know, when they come for us?”

“...In a little detail, I suppose,” Ronan seems to consider for a second, sighs heavily and rolls on his side to face him. His eyes are shadowed, lending him some of that old menace, but his face is still Ronan. The Kree who tried to destroy a galaxy, and is now finally letting his guilt over it drive him towards being a better person, “it rather depends, however, on what you decide to do.”

He hesitates for a second...

And, screw it. They’ve already literally torn down several walls with their passion, he knows in his heart that he’d cheerfully fight an entire universe just to keep Ronan breathing, he’d happily make a thousand concessions to draw one smile from Ronan’s overly serious lips.

“...Peter?”

“I have a few ideas,” he purrs, summoning his very smuggest smirk. Turns over on his own side, and reels the confused Ronan in as best he can, “hey, up for trying for another round?”

He’s made his decision. And, he suspects, so has Ronan.

 

\--

 

They continue not really discussing it, but he's pretty damn sure that both of them expect this phase of their time together to end dramatically. A burst of light in the night sky, followed by a whole fleet of ships. A whole army marching across the relatively peaceful hills, come to take back the world they already technically killed. Gamora bursting out of nowhere, knives flashing angrily in the direction of Ronan's throat.

He, at least, certainly doesn't expect to wake up one morning to a cold back. To yawn a little, and turn over to find the Ronan shaped indentation at his side empty.

 _Huh_.

He remembers waking up at some point in the night, to Ronan kissing the back of his neck and whispering that he'd be right back, but otherwise there's no clue as to where the guy's gone. When he sits up, bleary and slightly wobbly, the area is empty of blueness. When he looks around, idly stretching out his once broken leg, there are no handy dandy clues such as footprints or giant blood smears to inform him where his honey has wandered off to.

A brief flicker of fear starts in his stomach at that, at the thought of the _giant blood smears_ , but he pushes it down as best as he can. Clambers awkwardly to his feet, and rests his hands on his hips as he glances around. It's unlikely, highly unlikely, that a sudden unexpected giant rabbit-thing with a taste for Kree blood will have made itself known in the night. It's also unlikely, _highly_ unlikely, that Gamora and friends will have taken Ronan away from him without a word and left him all alone on a planet in the middle of nowhere.

Ronan was talking vaguely about working on the, long broken and hopeless, environmental controls on the ship yesterday - to try and make showers in between freezing cold and scalding hot possible. He can start there, maybe surprise the guy with a blowjob in the cockpit again. And if he's not there, maybe he's gone to the watering hole for something and he can surprise him with a rather damp handjob. And if he's not there...

Well, there are a thousand acts and a thousand places. No need to panic, not until he sees the giant rabbit-thing himself. He nods firmly to himself, and reaches for the last place they tossed his pants.

 

\--

 

Despite all of this, all of the numerous and _very good_ justifications he keeps telling himself, his heart still pounds as he walks in the direction of the Milano. What if he's wrong? What if something _has_ gone wrong? Ridiculous, yeah, because Ronan is about five hundred times more competent than he is - but logic still isn't quite enough to still the anxious writhing in his gut. What if there is a giant rabbit-thing, come to take a good chunk of what he cares about away? What if the Xandarians have overruled Gamora, grabbed Ronan for the sake of justice and left the mouthy Star-Lord to rot away on a nowhere rock? What if Ronan has hurt himself somewhere, is sitting like a duck just waiting for both rabbit-things and Xandarians to take him away? What if-?

He crests the hill, just next to the Milano, comes to a startled halt with his jaw dropping open.

...What if Gamora has emerged from nowhere, and is currently eyeing up Ronan in a Mexican stand-off that has absolutely no chance of going well for anybody ever?

He stares for a stunned moment, gawps for a stunned moment more, and then decides to very firmly follow his usual policies and dive straight into the mix no matter the cost. He starts running down the hill as fast as he can, beaming and with arms as wide open as he dares, "Gamora!"

"Peter!" Gamora smiles at the sound of his voice, actually briefly breaks her stare-off with Ronan to glance over at him... And immediately starts frowning as he comes to a halt between them. As he comes to a halt between them shirtless, with bite marks all over his upper chest and scratch marks down his back and _ho boy_ running into things without thinking has rarely been more awkward, " _Peter_."

"Hey!" He says, going on the defensive as is his permanent strategy, and carefully crosses his arms over the worst bite-mark right on the centre of his chest, "you could remain pleased to see me for at least a _few_ seconds more."

"You," Ronan finally speaks, also briefly turning his head from Gamora to give him an unimpressed look, "could have put on a shirt."

"I couldn't find one!"

"And whose fault is that?"

"It's been literally just over three months," Gamora informs him wearily, sounding almost in agreement with Ronan for all that she still has both of her guns firmly fixed upon him, "three and a half months, at most. Did you really _have_ to fuck our greatest enemy in that time?"

"Thanos is our greatest enemy, not Ronan," he says sulkily, to - entirely unsurprisingly - eyerolls from both sides, "and three and a half months, closer to four, is a long time for me!"

"And your penis?"

"You," Ronan says darkly, sounding surprisingly weary for an enthusiastic participant in literally everything, "have _no_ idea."

"...Okay, look. Can we stop discussing my penis now, please?" He huffs, deciding to take ownership of the situation. Or at least part ownership, considering the two people he's standing with. A consultancy role, at the very least, "I'm obviously fine and well, and so there's very little reason for you two to want to kill each other. Put the guns down, and we can talk."

"That..." Gamora frowns again, perhaps even deeper than the last time, "is possibly the least accurate thing you've ever said, and that's saying something."

"Put the guns down, please?"

"As much as I am reluctant to do so, I must agree," Ronan drawls, also giving him a rather deep frown, "the list of reasons for Gamora to kill me is probably a very long one, that would take hours to read. And while my own list is a little shorter, it is by no means-"

"Put the guns down, _please_?"

A long pause, as they both frown at him with equal intensity. And then Ronan huffs a little, slowly lowers the one gun that he's kept intact ever since he crashed onto the planet. A long moment, full of rather anxious staring, and then Gamora rolls her eyes again and lowers her own two guns just as slowly.

"There," he says, somewhat relieved by the fact that his kinda sorta space boyfriend isn't going to end up getting murdered by his best friend, "doesn't that feel better?"

"No," the murder twins say, pretty much exactly in time.

"... _Okay_ ," he decides to take whatever relief he can get, darts over to give Gamora a quick hug now that there's less risk of accidental stunning or dying. She still glares at him, but when she wraps her arms around him they're tight with relief, "well, it feels a little less dangerous and that's close to the same thing. Now we can actually chat like adults, and- Ronan, stop glaring, she's my _best friend_."

"My apologies," Ronan says, and continues glaring.

"This," Gamora informs him, as he pulls back to offer up his own - far milder, far less terrifying - glare in return, "is exactly why we don't sleep with our enemies. What were you thinking, Peter? _Were_ you even thinking?"

"I can think!" He says defensively, letting go of her fully to stand between the two again. Ronan, at least, eases slightly when he stands back. They've really _got_ to talk about that at some point, "and not just with my dick, before you start. Ronan is _hot_ and blue, sure, but he's also a lot more than that. He's witty, and supportive, and he listens to me a surprising amount, and-"

"Maybe I should just get stranded with him on a planet for a while?" Gamora asks waspishly. But if he knows her, and _hell_ does he know her, the fury in her eyes has softened just a little, "Look, Peter, I don't have time for that. Or, particularly, for this. You can list all your reasons later, I may even listen to them and stop Drax from yelling at you for hours, but right now we have a _problem_ on our hands."

And there it is, like a stone between them. Ronan stiffens again, glances away like he doesn't want anybody to see his eyes. He freezes for a long moment himself, has to tolerate a long few moments of Gamora peering at him before he can breathe again "...You're not killing him."

"Peter..."

"You're _not_ ," he snaps firmly, as Ronan's head turns back to them both in mild surprise. Mild surprise, heh, like he's _ever_ going to let somebody he actually cares about die again, "no killing, Gamora, or else... Or else you don't know _what_ I'm going to bring to the table."

He expects her to laugh at him for that, because _surely_ she can tell that he doesn't actually know what he's going to do, but instead she only peers at him thoughtfully for a long moment. Shakes her head, and sighs like she's willing to listen, "fine, no killing of the actual war criminal. But we have to do _something_ with him, Peter. We can't let him loose, or leave him free to break out of prison and start kidnapping people yet again."

A long, silent pause as he comes to terms with the truth of that fact. Closes his eyes, and breathes slowly through his nose as Gamora continues staring ever so intensely at him...

And then Ronan reaches out to him, gently brushes his fingers against his elbow like he actually wants to talk, "Peter."

"Gamora," he says, opening his eyes and blinking away whatever - stupid, ridiculous, _stupid_ \- water has formed there in the meantime, "I know this is stupid, and I know you're probably just gonna laugh in my face. But could you leave us alone for a few minutes?"

A long pause, and then Gamora only sighs at him again. Pats his arm briefly, as if reminding him to at least try to be good, and walks away with only the briefest glare in Ronan's direction.

 

\--

 

"She'll warm up to you," He says, the moment that Gamora has vanished from sight, "probably, almost certainly. I mean, she warmed up to me! And she _hated_ me when we first met, tried to kill me and everything. If you just give her a little time..."

Ronan quirks his lips a little, but it's not exactly anything close to a smile. Though Gamora is gone, he continues to watch after her thoughtfully like she's some sort of terrifying boogieman. Come to take everything he's loved and worked for away in one merciless swoop, "Peter... You should let her kill me, you know."

"No," He snaps, not even surprised by the ferocious rage that bubbles up within him at that, "Ronan, I thought we covered this."

"Not exactly. Gamora brought the idea up, and you completely dismissed it," Ronan only continues staring after the woman, thoughtful. Only glances back down at him when he growls, angrily shakes his head in frustration, "I just think, considering the situation-"

" _No_ ," he snarls, angrily. Glares at Ronan so hard that the man doesn't have even the slightest option of turning away, "Ronan, did you listen to even a single thing that I said to her? I would fight an entire universe to keep you alive, you big blue idiot! You're witty, you're smart, you're kind... You don't _deserve_ to die."

Ronan stares down at him for a long moment, eyes.

"You _don't_."

"All the things that I have done..." Ronan starts softly, almost musingly. Shakes his head brusquely, but continues staring down at him with that strange thought in his eyes, "even to you. _Especially_ to you, sometimes. I have no idea why you continue to be so understanding of me, Peter, it seems an act of insanity at best."

"Well, that's me. Always taking the most insane path," he says daringly, grabs Ronan's arm before the guy gets the crazy idea of turning away again, "look, do you _want_ to die?"

"I-" Ronan seems to consider the question for a long few seconds, allowing his hand to remain firmly grasping his arm like some sort of grounding mechanism or something, "no. I am willing to die, have always been willing to do so, but I suppose those are two different things."

"The man says something sensible, at last," he says wryly, rolls his eyes when Ronan only gives him an incredibly flat look, "there are other options, if you're willing."

"You have taught me to be so," Ronan says, actually _honest_ in a way that makes his chest hurt ridiculously. Peers down at him, like he holds all the answers and would never once lie, "I could return to prison. Live out the rest of my long sentence there, and prove that I want to change."

"Good start," he says, trying his very hardest to sound encouraging and not lingeringly frustrated.

"I could be as helpful as I can, sit in that little boxy room for the rest of my life and contemplate my sins, make up for at least some of the lives I've taken... Honour my culture as best I can, while finding a new way to relate to it," Ronan considers this for another long second, nods firmly. Eyes taking on a new light, a more determined one, "and it shall be hard, I know, possibly the most incredibly hard thing that I've ever done. But it shall be the right thing to do."

"Yes."

"And the thought of you..." Ronan smiles a little, finally, dips his head to press their foreheads together, "the thought of you, my Star-Lord, shall sustain me through the hardship."

"Yeah," he agrees, with his own faint smile. Leans into the touch as much as he can, "not to mention my regular pep talks!"

A long pause. He's not entirely sure, because he you never be _entirely_ sure about anything when you only possess human ears, but he's pretty sure that Gamora screeches with frustration and punches something just out of sight.

"What?" Ronan asks politely, sounding faintly stunned.

"When I visit you!" He provides helpfully, and leans back just a little. Beams up at Ronan, and his adorably wide-eyed shock, "you know, in your boxy little prison cell! I know they said that they'd have to restrict visitation as much as possible, but... I did kinda save their whole planet. I'm sure they're willing to make an exception for me!"

"Peter," Ronan says slowly, a strange look coming over his face. Hope mixed with confusion, transforming him into something utterly baffled and wonderfully blue, "in a few minutes, a few hours at most, you'll be free."

"I'm already free," he says, with a shrug, "I'll just be off this planet. There is a difference, you know."

"You won't have to associate with me any longer," Ronan continues carefully, that strange baffled hope lingering in his voice too - turning every word into something special, something gloriously shaky, "there will be no obligation, no deal. You can just get on your fixed ship, reunite with your friends, fly off into the galaxy..."

"I could have done that weeks ago," he informs Ronan, and leans up to still the man's complaining with a kiss "...Mmm. I could've flown off and left you, sure. I could've _not_ kissed you, and moved on with my slightly frustrated life. But I didn't, and I did, and I am _not_ going back on that now."

Ronan remains silent for a long moment. Eyes closed, lips still damp, "Peter..."

"I don't know what being in love feels like," he starts firmly, smiles a little as Ronan's eyes spring open in shock. He should feel terrified saying the words, even anything _close_ to commitment has raised hives before, but instead he's happy. Calm, at peace with the wonderful thing that his life has become, "I've never really experienced it before, but this... I think this is as close as I'm ever going to get to it. And, Ronan, I am _never_ going to give that up."

"Peter..." Ronan repeats slowly, and then finally smiles again. So brightly that all the stars and suns can't do a thing to rival it, " _my_ Peter."

And when they kiss this time, open mouthed and so happy that he half feels like his heart could burst out of his chest, it doesn't feel anxious at all. It only feels _right_ , like they've been working to get to this perfect point for all this time.


End file.
